


Within and Without

by alyxpoe



Series: Walking the Mind Palace [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BAM Irene, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Palace, Mycroft rules the roost like a boss, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's POV (mostly), Some angst, men kissing, sexy bathtub Sherlock, these idiots finally realize they love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:18:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets hurt.<br/>Sherlock gets angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. P.I: Alter Ego

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I have no excuse for this other than insomnia.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So honored!! July 29 2014  
> ...http://archiveofourown.org/works/2044815/chapters/4440420?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_13432992.  
> The lovely-wonderful-amazing hamstermoon made Cover Art for this story :) My first one ever!!  
> Check it out!

**Within and Without, Part I**

 

> # “I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
> 
> ― [F. Scott Fitzgerald](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3190.F_Scott_Fitzgerald), _[The Great Gatsby](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/245494) _

* * *

 

Tonight the mind palace is not the comforting presence wrapped around his consciousness that it usually is. Instead, it is dark and mysterious, the winding corridors lit with platinum wall sconces that flicker in warning as he passes them. He can feel the bottom hem of his long black coat pulling back against the breeze made by his legs as he strides purposely down the self-made halls.

Now the walls are lined with mirrors that Sherlock pays scant attention to. He is searching through millions of pieces of data, desperately seeking the key that will unlock the truth of the scenes he witnessed only a few short hours earlier. Scenes that almost broke him; they may still very well do, depending on the outcome of what is happening around him. Tonight the facts he needs appear to be willfully escaping his mental grasp.

He is brought up short at some random point and goes completely still. Sherlock peers into the impenetrable darkness ahead then moves his attention to the right where his reflection stares back at him. It is as flinty-eyed and dour as ever he can be. His mouth twitches at the amusing sight of the stray curl over his eye that his reflection shows, otherwise this is useless time wasting so he waves his hand in the air to banish his doppelganger. It disappears quickly, but not before he realizes that written on its forehead in dripping black ink is the word “Cruel.” He grimaces and so does the reflection, then it is gone.

Another one takes its place. Identical to the first except it has bleached-blond hair and “Guilty” written on its forehead. Sherlock makes the same gesture as before, only this time it doesn't work. He finds himself with three of them as apparently his subconscious has decided that he is not only cruel and guilty, but also a “Machine.” The auburn hair on the third reflection has been closely cropped to his skull and there is a silver patch over one of its eyes. Its expression holds the same dry anger as its brethren.

This is preposterous! How can he even begin to sift through _vital_ information when this useless crap insists on getting in the way?

A low beeping sound pierces the walls and intrudes on his thoughts.

At once the mind palace becomes nothing more than smoke as he brings reality back to the forefront of his mind. What he sees when he opens his eyes will never cease to be a jolt to his system.

John is prone on a hospital bed with tubes and IV's almost obscuring him from view. A shock of dirty blond hair can be seen against the stark white pillow and his hands are still, frozen in time on either side of his body, palms facing the ceiling, fingers relaxed into a mockery of fists. Sherlock notes the hitch in his own breathing as he looks over his best friend.

John's skin is ashen; pale eyelids are pulled tightly over eyes that have yet to cease their movement. Deep purple bruises mar the skin beneath his eyes. A bright red line runs down the side of his jaw, the deep color broken only by neat black stitches. The sight of it angers Sherlock in ways he has never known. John's light-blue clad chest—his too thin chest, if Sherlock is honest with himself—rises and falls in time with the machine breathing for him.

As much as it physically hurts, Sherlock is forced to admit that nothing about John's condition has changed in the past few hours, or however long he's been wandering the mind palace. He glances at the readouts on several of the machines and sighs before settling back into the uncomfortable plastic chair that feels like it is made only for people half his height. Sherlock brings his steepled fingers back to his mouth and instantly returns to the corridors of the mind palace.

This time the sconces burn brightly and a healthy golden glow illuminates his way as he delves deeper into his subconscious. Every step is muffled by the plush carpet beneath his feet as he strolls, taking in his surroundings with the familiarity of touching a long-time lover. Door after door appears as he passes through the mirrored hallways, each one unique and unlabeled. This time he is able to ignore his triple reflection, choosing to only grudgingly acknowledge their collective presence with a flick of his fingers.

There are more important things to be done at this moment, such as track down the impertinent bastard who brought John to this point.

In the hospital room, Sherlock's eyes are closed but the rapid movement beneath the lids mimics that of the man in the bed. His spine is straight, feet flat on the floor. Anyone looking in on them would think that the detective is simply meditating on his friend's condition.

In Sherlock's mind, however, there are many things happening at the same time. Random bits of data, such as words and mathematical algorithms fly past. Behind them are what appear to be several stacks of three-dimensional, crystal clear window panes. Beyond the walls of the palace wild animals go about their lives, some wearing see-through collars adorned with labels giving out their scientific names. Beyond even that is plant life galore, growing in order from the smallest to the largest: a tiny new Venus flytrap stands in front of a cherry tree which stands in front of an apple tree and so on and so forth until a giant sequoia stretches up as far as the inner eye can see.

Sherlock circles the front parlor, ignoring the red velvet drapes decorated with heavy gold brocade and concentrates instead on the old red chair sitting alone in the center of the floor. He moves up close to it and leans down to pluck a perfect golden hair from the back. Holding it up to the light, it appears to be more crystalline than fibrous, beautiful in its perfection.

In the hospital room as well as in the mind palace, Sherlock sighs deeply. In his subconscious, Sherlock hears the word "John" escape his lips on the exhale.

A tall, dark-haired nurse with a stethoscope around her neck has just opened the door to peek in at her charge and the man that the hospital staff is calling his 'guard dog.' Since the guard dog appears to be dozing, she quickly and efficiently checks John's vitals and straightens his blankets. His breathing is deep and if it weren't for the machine, she could believe he is sleeping soundly. Out of habit, her eyes scan the man in the chair as well and she has to fight the motherly urge to wrap a blanket around his shoulders. Something in the way he holds himself, however, pulls her up short. She nods to herself and slips out of the room on her soft-soled shoes.


	2. P.I: Man Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”  
> ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's in my headcanon that Mycroft Holmes really is a badass, he just prefers to delegate. Yep, that's the right word. I think BBC Mycroft is simply too *stuffy* to *not* be...you know? And, like older siblings everywhere, he'd give his left testicle to keep his brother safe. (Or ovary for those of us without testicles.)
> 
> (This has no baring on this part of this story.)

Sherlock sifts and sorts out piles of indeterminable origin that appear out of nowhere to gather around John's old chair from 221B. In the hospital room, his hands are flying through invisible files, tripping over invisible keyboards and erasing invisible screens with a single swipe. To the naked eye, he looks completely mad. If John were awake and aware, however, he would understand what is happening.

Of course, John would also be in shock from more than his injuries, because he is unaware that Sherlock is even _alive_.

Sherlock opens one eye to check that his friend's condition is still relatively the same as it was a little while ago. Ascertaining that everything is as it was, he retreats back into his memories of the past twelve hours.

***

“Sherlock, you're running out of time. The only way to stop him is to move _now_.” Mycroft's tone is urgent through the headset.

Sherlock snorts loudly, knowing full well what it does to his brother's ear. He stifles a pleased laugh by shoving his fist between his teeth when Mycroft reacts. It is difficult to still feel the pressure after all this time, especially _now,_ now that it is almost over and he can finally go _home_...

“Sherlock! Pay attention!” Mycroft orders. Sherlock can practically _see_ the raised eyebrow.

Sherlock is crouched down in a dark corner between the old rock bridge and a decrepit wall. He is out of the pool of light from the street lamp in front of him, even so he still pushes back against the wall in an effort to keep to the shadows. The bottom hem of the black trench coat he is wearing drags on the dirty ground and he frowns, thanks to some idiot on Mycroft's team who _completely_ misunderstood his instructions...and now he's going to stink by the time this is over.

After a few seconds of internally grousing about his situation, Sherlock holds still and listens to the sound of water dripping somewhere nearby; it makes a faint echo between all of the rock walls. He counts his respirations and wills his body to remain in one place until the unmistakable _clink_ of a pebble hitting a wall and then a tiny splash as it stops in one of the many puddles.

In an instant, Sherlock is off and running. There are two shadows in front of him now and he does his best to stay hidden, but at the last second the shadows split apart: one large, blocky shadow and the other a shorter, much more familiar one. Sherlock's heart begins to pound against the cage of his chest until it is the only other thing he can feel besides the hard ground beneath his feet. Breathing has become gasping as he yanks his weapon from the holster underneath his arm. The first man, the big man, stops before he crashes into a wall and turns his head left and right as if denying he is trapped. The second man, the smaller man, is almost on top of him.

Sherlock sees the first man's gun in the split second before he squeezes the trigger on his own. Over the shocking echo of two guns going off simultaneously can be heard two screams. Two men fall to the ground but only one, _the only one_ , is important enough that the normally cool-calm-and-collected detective is screaming into his headset like a deranged banshee.

“I need help _now_! Man down, Mycroft, you owe me this one! It's John, Mycroft, it's John. John is down, I think Moran is dead, Mycroft. Do. You. Copy?”

Gritting his clenched teeth so hard that his jaw pops, Sherlock drops to the ground next to his best friend, who is flat on his back on the grungy, broken cement beneath the broken, grungy walls and he is on his knees and begging, really and truly begging, into the headset for his big brother to make things right. There's blood on John's face and it is running into his slack mouth; Sherlock uselessly swipes at it with his fingertips. All his fears of missing something important on every single case he has ever closed culminate in this moment and he will always think of this moment as his biggest mistake, even bigger than the one that led him to this point in the first place.

***

In the semi-darkness of John's hospital room, the world's only consulting detective waves his hands in the air and forces himself back to the present. The atmosphere that surrounds him feels different. Sherlock scans the room and a tiny movement brings his attention to John's face.

John's face.

John's sapphire blue eyes are looking directly at him over the oxygen mask and his mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water and Sherlock...Sherlock is completely out of his depth here. The heart monitor is not going insane nor are any of the other machines so Sherlock takes a quick peek into the now-empty sitting room of the mind palace where he has left John's chair.

The chair is no longer covered with dust and it is sitting in the middle of the room, sun streaming in from the window opposite it. This is new.

Sherlock opens his eyes again. John is still looking at him but instead of being so pale now, there is the slightest hit of color on his cheeks. He starts to reach out towards his friend, but the fear in John's eyes stops him. He scoots deeper into the uncomfortable chair and draws his legs up, making himself as small as he is able. Sherlock fidgets for a minute with his fingers and scratches at his upper arms. He attempts to retreat back to the mind palace but finds he is unable to look away from his friend.

John's expression softens slightly and Sherlock counts that as a point for his side. Oh, he knows John is going to be angry, of that there can be no doubt, but maybe while he is incapacitated...perhaps he will listen.

Sherlock unfolds himself slowly then even more slowly drags the chair closer to John's bed. John lifts one trembling hand and Sherlock leans in towards it, knowing that even if John can't speak, this is a _now or never_ moment. Warring expressions pass over John's features...anger, fear, hurt and at last, a look that Sherlock chooses to interpret as “I have missed you” as the back of John's hand just brushes Sherlock's stubbly cheek. John blinks at him and Sherlock sighs.

“It is really me, John. I am really here. I promise.”


	3. P.I: Promises and Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It takes two to make an accident.”  
> ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. Things are left vague on purpose, because my point here is not the medical procedures, but Sherlock and John. Thank you :)

In contrast to Sherlock's mind palace, John's consciousness is a mess. In point of fact, he is actually having a difficult time remembering why he has a tube down his throat and why his face hurts so badly. For that matter, his side is killing him, too. He feels like he's been run over by a lorry. Somewhere in the dark twisted tangle of his thoughts and faded memories, Sherlock's face appears in sudden brightness.

John can feel himself fighting against the breathing tube and he knows it is fruitless. Somehow, though, as always with them, Sherlock comprehends what John wants almost before he does. He leans forward and there is the scrape of metal against tile as he pulls the plastic chair towards the side of the bed. As his friend leans forward, a thousand emotions whirl and tumble through John's psyche: fury over the fact that since Sherlock is _here_ , he's obviously _not dead_ ; a new pain that comes with the knowledge that he was lied to; fear that he is going mad and the dead detective's presence is merely an hallucination; finally, acceptance that what is done is done and that this really is Sherlock, here in this hospital room, in the flesh. Living, breathing, heart-beating...flesh. Those eyes, so familiar, peer deep into John's soul and he wants to touch so badly but is finding any movement so difficult.

John's hand eventually succumbs to his willpower and he reaches towards Sherlock's face. An even bigger surprise than discovering his dead best friend sitting in a hard plastic hospital chair is the stubble on the other man's face. Stubble? On a man typically so careful about his appearance? A silent sob wracks his body as he wonders what else has changed.

“It is really me, John. I am here, I promise.” Sherlock's deep voice is pitched low and John finds that even as uncomfortable as he is at the moment, that sound is like warm liquid gold straight to his heart. Another sob threatens to tear him to pieces so he leans back against the pillows and tries to pull himself together. Sherlock doesn't move.

John closes his eyes against the steel-framed weight of exhaustion and plunges back into the darkness that isn't quite that dark: as he begins to fall into sleep, memories of the day begin to resurface. They bubble free of the quagmire of his mind like air trapped in liquid tar.

***

John found out about Colonel Moran by accident, unless he considers anything Mycroft lets slip as intentional, but right now that's just too hard to think about. Right now all John is thinking about—and he knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be thinking that way—but all he wants is some sort of revenge on anyone associated with Moriarty. In his reasoning, any of those people who were known to be in Moriarty's pockets are as guilty as the 'consulting criminal' of Sherlock's death. Next in line, he truly believes, is himself.

That doesn't matter now, though. What matters at this point is that John managed to track down Moran, contact him, and managed to finagle a meeting with the alleged right-hand man of one James Moriarty. After several weeks of staying under Mycroft's radar, John gets Moran where he wants him: in the sight of his gun. They are surrounded by the stench of filth and the sound of water slowly dripping in the darkness. Only one single street lamp is in the vicinity, and that is several meters from where they stand facing each other.

John knows there were words exchanged between them; he is at a complete loss know to remember what they would have been.

After that, things go horribly, horribly wrong. Moran appears out of the shadows of the run-down bridge by the river. He and John size each other up. Then there is the sound of someone else moving around near them and Moran's angry expression lets John know that Moran thinks John has set him up. Moran wheels about and takes off at a gallop. John follows.

Next thing he knows, he is facing Moran, who is trapped on three sides by walls. The sound of a second set of footsteps behind him, and for an instant John thinks it could be Sherlock—maybe, but then the fantasy is washed away and in reality, it is probably one of Mycroft's minions who finally managed to catch up to what John had been doing.

It is not Mycroft's minions, however, and the last two things John remembers well are the double intonations of gunshots and then feeling like he had been punched in the gut by the Incredible Hulk. He remembers hitting the ground then the strange sensation of a familiar, and very much missed voice, before he faded away.

 

***

A little while later, John slams back into consciousness and sees the chair beside him is empty. He panics and begins pulling at the tube in his throat in order to shout. Alarms ring out shrilly and then there are two nurses and an orderly holding his arms down, trying their best to calm him.

“Doctor Watson, please listen to us.” The auburn-haired orderly says gently; his voice a direct contrast to the vise grip he's got on John's wrists.

John knows for sure his chest is going to explode. He is growing light-headed from trying to gasp about the tube and the muscles in his torso are screaming bloody murder. Sherlock was _here_ , he was just here! He's alive! Oh my god, Sherlock! John's voice echoes inside his own head. He bucks against the orderly's hands, doing his best impression of a dying shark that's been hauled overboard; he doesn't think he can hold on much longer...if he can just get this goddamned tube out of his throat...

“John.” Sherlock says softly from somewhere behind the orderly that John's brain has decided must be the Minotaur's cousin.

At once, John stops fighting but the orderly doesn't let go. The nurses step away from him, one of them holding an unused syringe.

“You can't be here sir,” she tells Sherlock.

John makes another attempt at screaming, the orderly simply tightens his big fists and says, “shhh.”

Sherlock's eyes cut a path through the tension in the room to focus solely on the nurse. She takes a step backward and John can imagine her dry gulp at the cold, fierce expression on the detective's face. He opens his mouth and John waits for the tongue lashing to begin. Instead, the voice he hears belongs to the eldest Holmes brother who is standing in the doorway, a dark wooden handled brolly over his arm.

“I think, Nurse Wilson, that you find that he absolutely _can_ be,” Mycroft states with no small air of authority whilst looking down his nose at the woman.

“Who are you?” Asks the orderly, loosening his hold now that John is no longer in danger of tearing up his throat.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft says as he studies his fingernails.

There is a strange silence in the room for a moment then the second nurse and the orderly vanish. Mycroft nods to both of them as they scurry from the room. The nurse with the syringe draws herself up to her full height of about five foot two and gives him a curt nod as she walks past him.

“Thank you, sir.” She closes the door behind her.

The three men simply stare at one another. John feels like a boy whose been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“John Watson, I do believe you managed to evade me.” Mycroft speaks softly, though his tone is heavy.

John can't talk so he simply nods, though he refuses to break eye contact.

“Leave him alone.” Sherlock warns his brother, though even John can tell that his voice lacks its usual venom.

Before Mycroft can say anything else, there's a knock on the door and John's physician steps through.

“Doctor Watson, I believe we can move on to an oxygen mask now that you are awake.” John gives the man a nod and when he looks up, Mycroft is gone and Sherlock is back in the chair beside his bed, giving John's doctor a critical once over. He must not be too bothered by what he sees, because he sits back a little—but just a little—so that he can step between the detective and the bed.

“I need to call in the nurse to assist me in removal of the tube, so please give me a moment,” the physician tells them before he leaves the room. John sighs the best he can and leans against the pillows are tries his best to relax because he knows how bad this is going to hurt. He closes his eyes and a warm weight settles on one of his hands; he doesn't open them again until after the procedure that only takes a few minutes but hurts like hell.

When they are alone again, he turns to find Sherlock holding a cup of chipped ice out towards him. He has his head cocked to one side as if he is afraid to say anything. John works the mask off his face a little and winces when his voice croaks.

“Please.”

Sherlock offers him an ice chip and as John sucks on it, starts talking. John thinks that in his life, he has never been so grateful to hear the rumble of that voice and decides then and there that if he ever complains about Sherlock's motor mouth again the rest of their lives, he is going to remember this moment. He hangs on every word until he is simply too exhausted to listen anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapters, but I'm using a borrowed computer until I can replace my own. Never fear, though, I couldn't stop the muse if I tried. So please don't think I've given up on any of the other fics! They are still slowly coming together, though a little more difficultly, because I lost all of my outlines. I love you all, dear readers-I'm sure I'd go completely insane without you.


	4. P.I: Spirit Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is required of every man," the ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death." - Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

When Sherlock finally realizes that John is asleep, his jaw closes with a snap, cutting off his stream-of-consciousness.

_Do you continue talking to me when I'm not around?_

For a little while, he truly has forgotten that he has an audience. Re-telling the story involves a certain amount of reliving it and transitioning back to the here-and-now can be difficult.

He carefully adjusts the clear plastic mask on John's face with one hand and only then does he notice that he is holding John's wrist with the other one. Experimentally, he squeezes his fingers, watching them tighten: pale and ghostly against the faint tan of John's skin. A soft sound escapes John beneath the oxygen mask. He does it one more time just to hear it again then because he knows that sleep is the best thing right now for his friend, as much as he would prefer it to be otherwise.

Fighting the urge to squeeze onto the narrow bed and mold himself to John's side, Sherlock folds back into the chair, closes his eyes and makes his way back into the mind palace. He stops in the foyer in order to shrug out of his coat and hangs it on the sturdy white washed wooden door at his back. Along the base of the wall to the right is a line of shoes and boots: everything from a ridiculously posh pair of black patent leather stiletto heels to an old, beat-up pair of grey Wellies. Sherlock takes quick stock of them and adjusts a pair of oxblood wingtips that have mysteriously fallen out of line. He takes a long look at the khaki military boots next to them and decides that right now he cannot spend too much time worrying about costumes. John is more important.

Now, instead of moving into the parlor and curling up in John's chair, he heads down a long hallway that is without wall fixtures of any type and opens a plain brown door. Inside this room he is instantly faced with another door, this one taller and not nearly as wide. It is made of steel and would look to the outsider like the door barring entry or exit to a medieval prison—complete with a big round iron knocker in the shape of a gargoyle's head set at Sherlock's eye level.

“The Marleys were dead to begin with...” Sherlock mutters.

He rests his left palm against the door above the knocker and takes a deep breath. Incongruously, the door slides to the right to allow him into the next chamber. Sherlock strides through it, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves as he does so. He pulls out a large chair that is part of a set: there are six of them at different points along the sides of an enormous ebony table, the top of which is polished to a high shine. Sherlock gazes down at it for a moment then recoils, the force if it making him take two steps backward.

The triple reflection is back.

“Not now,” he tells them curtly. Cruel, Machine and Guilty remain where they are, staring up at him, all five eyes piercing him. He places both hands on the table and leans over the faces.

“Fine. I'll listen _this_ time,” he says as he rolls his eyes to the vaulted and windowed ceiling. There are no windows along the walls, as they are completely blank and made of alternating white boards, cork boards and even old-fashioned chalk boards.

Guilty inches forward so that he is standing in front of the others, his white hair a contrast to the dark wood of the table. He frowns up at the detective. A ghostly hand appears in the surface, pointer finger extended, thumb straight up and the other fingers curled as if wrapped around the handle of a gun.

Sherlock huffs loudly and sinks his hands into his hair. “I know,” he tells the reflection, “I know I was wrong. It's done now, I can't go back and fix it. I was wrong.”

Guilty vanishes in a puff of smoke. Cruel moves forward, his slate grey eyes accusing. Like the first doppelganger, he cannot speak but he opens his mouth as if to try. No sound comes out except a high-pitch whine that sounds like the death scream of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. Sherlock flinches.

“No, this time, _you_ are wrong,” he states, the venom in his tone palpable. “I never meant to be cruel. Never. I had to protect them all, John most of all. The act was cruel, that I will admit; that was not to be the final outcome and you know it.”

Sherlock points at his reflection. He is standing at his full height now, his expression thunderous yet full of terror besides, teeth clenched and jaw straining. Cruel gazes up at him in defiance, his mouth in a tight line. He narrows his eyes and turns his head to the side as if attempting to force Sherlock to say more. There's a scuffle and Machine pushes Cruel out of his way. All of Sherlock's attention is pulled to the silver eye patch. Machine smirks then allows his lips to fall open, showing off a platinum grill.

“You look deranged,” Sherlock hisses at this odd representation of himself. Machine nods and crosses his well-defined arms over his chest. Perhaps he is the most patient of the trio. Surely he is the most unique.

“Maybe you were right, once.” Sherlock pauses as an audio memory of John calling him a machine flits through his mind. The room around him grows hazy; when the strange transparent fog clears, a massive row of bookshelves appears against one wall. They stretch from carpet to ceiling; the book spines that can be seen are ordered by color: red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, and violet. Sherlock understands instantly.

“That's what I've done, haven't I? I let him believe the lie...that I am a machine. A sociopath...how could John believe that?” Sherlock begins to pace around the table. “He believed it because I _wanted_ him to believe it...” he mutters then stops at the side and looks back down at the two remaining reflections.

Cruel shoves Machine until they are standing shoulder to shoulder. Both of them are nodding now. Machine holds up an incandescent light bulb and smirks. Cruel merely bows his head and fades away. Sherlock detests admitting that sometimes he needs this, but this time he is strangely appreciative for their weird collective presence in the Mind Palace.

“I should thank you,” he says as he indicates the table and the bookshelf. Machine raises his eye patch to reveal a shining gemstone. Sherlock deftly lifts it from the empty socket. He holds it up towards the ceiling that is now punctuated with bright sunlight and takes note of the striations in the tumbled stone called a tiger's eye.

Sherlock is pulled out of his investigation of the stone by a small _bing._ He shakes his head and pats down his pockets for his phone, momentarily off-balance. Its screen almost seems too bright for the dim room and the fact that he's had his eyes closed for quite some time. The text message, once he is able to clear his head enough to read it, is simple enough.

_We have him now. -MH_

Sherlock knows this is for the best. He drops the phone on the little side table and stretches his legs out. John is still sleeping soundly. Sherlock slides his shoes off and pulls his shirt out of his trousers then removes his belt. Without thinking it through, he slides into the empty space next to John and pulls him close, thinking that even if he gets angry when he wakes, at least Sherlock will have good news for him. Just for a little while, he wants to feel like everything is going to be okay between them. Now that Moran will be disposed of by Mycroft's minions, he can concentrate on what is really important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it is my headcanon that Sherlock is familiar with Dickens...maybe he was really, really bored in rehab once...


	5. P.I: Without Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”  
> ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Sherlock counts his respirations and wills himself to relax. John's chest rises and falls beneath his ear, lulling him into a much needed rest. He doesn't sleep long and when he wakes he finds himself unable to move; it feels like it has just been so long since he has been able to receive or give any measure of human comfort. Taking a deep breath in order to inhale the scent of pure John, Sherlock allows himself to wander freely about the corridors and rooms of the mind palace.

***

Somewhere in America between Illinois and Indiana, Sherlock boards a city bus, his mind only half occupied with thoughts of the man he has been chasing for days from Detroit to Chicago who is apparently now sitting in the very first seat of this crowded bus. Sherlock is positive Winston Saylers is headed for points further east. It has been a difficult decision to not take him down but to allow him to lead the detective (and Mycroft's team-by-proxy) to whichever scum Winston is working for. Sherlock is so far down the scale as far as importance to Moriarty goes now that sometimes he thinks it is all a waste of time. He stares at the front of the bus over the high-backed putrid green seat in front of him. Someone is speaking in his vicinity and when he finally looks down and to his right, he is surprised to find a child.

“You look like Howl,” the boy states bluntly.

Sherlock studies this brave small person; twelve—no, thirteen years old, biological parents divorced, slightly overweight but within normal parameters for his age and obvious activity type. Possibly has an older sister (Sherlock doesn't dare over-estimate that one, he remembers Harry Watson all too well), fashionable black heavy-framed glasses and superhero T-shirt. Reasonably clean, obviously cared for. Mid-western accent, Ohio? Indiana? Kentucky? The boy stares right back.

“It's your hair,” he tells Sherlock, “its all crazy and I bet you can make it change color whenever you feel like it.”

“I can,” Sherlock finds himself saying.

The boy's brown eyes gleam with interest and he turns to look at Sherlock's back, currently clad in a red-checked flannel shirt.

“Do you have wings?” he asks, his expression hopeful.

Sherlock shakes his head to the negative and goes back to watching the back of the head of his quarry.

“No, not me.” _I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one._

The boy remains mute until the bus finally stops somewhere outside Indianapolis and Sherlock is forced to grab a ticket for a different route when Winston does the same. He doesn't think he's been spotted yet and he is ninety-eight point three percent certain Winston wouldn't recognize him, especially since his hair is hanging down to his collar and he is sporting a three-day growth of stubble on his jaw. Plus the worn jeans and flannel shirt....just in case, he purchases a red baseball hat with the name of some trucking company plastered to the front of it.

Sherlock eyes the thing warily, clearly hearing an echo of John saying _It's a hat, Sherlock..._ he purses his lips into a moue of distaste and shoves the thing onto his head. He has to walk a little faster to catch up with Winston, but he manages to keep the criminal in sight until the bus stops in a little town outside of Lexington, Kentucky.

What happened after that, Sherlock really does not enjoy reliving. He remembers making a mental note to ask John who this Howl person is; one more thing on the long list of items he put together whilst traveling. The den in the mind palace is filled from stem to stern with a million tiny variously colored notes: they are pinned on boards, stuck on the walls with tape and some even hang on strings from the ceiling. It's ridiculous, but once they are able to get back to some normality, Sherlock is going to ask John about every last one of them.

***

“Sherlock.” John's hoarse, muffled voice cuts through the detective's thoughts. Only then does he recognize the fact that his arms and legs are clamped around John's body, vise-like. He startles then feels John's arm tighten around him.

“'t's fine,” John says slowly in order to be heard.

The weight of John's open hand on his shoulder brings things to the forefront of his mind that he has been avoiding thinking about until now. He rolls his arms enough to jostle the hand on him slightly; John adjusts. Sherlock closes his eyes.

“You are doing that on purpose.” Sherlock keeps his voice pitched low. For a second, he worries that maybe John's painkillers are working too well. He waits for the interlude to be interrupted when John realizes what he is doing.

“ 'course.” John's chest stutters beneath Sherlock's head as he forces the words between his lips. He starts making a circle with his palm, massaging the tense muscle.

A tiny bolt of lightning runs from the point of John's touch straight through Sherlock's torso and into the place where his heart lives. John's other hand, the one with the IV still in it, rests lightly on Sherlock's arm. This is wonderful. After a few minutes, a nurse comes in and checks John's vitals. Sherlock starts to pull away when John pushes himself up against the headboard, but John's fingers clamp down on his shoulder and he is smart enough to know what _stay_ feels like. He mutely nods against John's side and burrows into the base of his neck. A strange little snuffling noise escapes him involuntarily. 

“See you've got yourself a teddy bear, Dr. Watson.” The nurse says with a smile that Sherlock can _hear_. Another funny little noise escapes his throat and John huff-chuckles from behind the oxygen mask.

“Yes, it seems I have alright,” John offers. _Teddy bear_ seems a better moniker than what the staff was calling him earlier. Sherlock has never been anyone's _guard dog._

“John, you can start taking your mask off for a few minutes at a time now. If you start feeling short of breath—what am I saying? I think you already know that.”

Sherlock can tell John is nodding because it jars him slightly. Now that he is here in this oh-so-warm and familiar-smelling place, the past months are catching up with him and he finds that is more than exhausted.

“We eventually need to talk, Sherlock.” John croaks; he grabs the water cup off the side table and takes a long drink.

Sherlock pushes himself up a little to look at John's face, taking note of the slight bit of dried blood in his nostrils. He is wearing an expression that seems to be a strange mix of irritation, fondness and maybe Sherlock is overreaching here, but maybe even forgiveness? He has no idea what to say.

“I was listening to you last night,” John says quietly, most likely not impressed with the squeaky sounds he's making, “so I can't say that I agree with your actions, but I understand.”

Sherlock nods and starts to speak but there is a hand on his nape now and he is slowly falling into a stupor. He can still clearly hear the words John didn't say _I understand you saved our lives._

“Let's rest, yeah?” John asks, but Sherlock is already spiraling downward into unconsciousness. He mumbles something and somehow registers that his phone is vibrating against his leg but he is too far gone to check it. It never occurs to him that it wasn't there when he climbed into the bed. That thought sets off a tight nagging sensation in the base of his brain that he largely ignores in favor of his heart and his transport.


	6. P.I: Security Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”  
> ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

In the center of another long corridor of the mind palace, a bright orange door is set into the wall. On the door is painted a gleaming yellow sun in the style of child artists the world over: a big round circle with lines coming off of it to symbolize rays. It wears black sunglasses and a cheesy, bright red smile. Sherlock opens the door not by turning the crystal knob but by placing his palm against it and watching it roll upward. This room is dark, lit only by a tall, white candle in a brass holder in the center of a small, two seater mahogany table. Next to the candle holder is a small, rectangular box with no markings on it at all. Sherlock sits himself in one of the two white metal chairs and crosses his ankles beneath the table.

When his clothing feels wrong, he looks down to see that he is wearing some sort of loose trousers and long, black boots. He shrugs and grabs the box. He opens the box and pulls out a set of playing cards with solid black backs riddled with tiny white skulls and crossbones. Sherlock begins laying out the cards in a pattern that resembles a solitaire play, except that he puts three across and two down with a single card on its face on top of that so that if the cards were red, the shape could be mistaken as the red medic cross used by militaries around the world to designate field hospitals and such.

Sherlock flips over three of the cards across the row so that he is now looking at a drawing of a maid, some stars, and a road. He frowns, unsure of what he is even doing in this particular room at this moment in the first place. It certainly is not where he had set out to go when he decided to go back into the mind palace. This room is where all of his unsolved cases are kept, as well as where he keeps an eclectic mix of information that has only been useful on a few of cases ever: phantom hounds, glowing lagomorphs and enormous white elephants lead the pack. This is also the room where he sequestered any and all information regarding The Woman.

He flips over a fourth card and finds himself staring down at a photograph of The Woman's mobile phone, only the letters _S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K-E-D_ are blinking at him as if they have had glitter spread all over them.

Sherlock is growing weary of this room filled with all of these meaningless things, so he decides to check in on John. He closes the door the same way he opened it, then allows his mind to conjure up a gigantic brass padlock that he closes on its chain around the door in the same criss-cross shape often made out of crime scene tape to block entry to outsiders.

 

***

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock half-growls in the direction of the petite woman sitting primly in the hard plastic chair beside John's bed. He is now mostly spread all over John who has cracked an eye at him in wonder. Sherlock pushes himself upright then helps John do the same. Above the oxygen mask, John's eyes widen and he turns to the detective and starts to pull off the mask.

Sherlock stops him with a finger on John's hand. “Wait,” he says.

“Took you long enough,” Irene states, waving a perfectly-manicured hand in their direction.

“Go away.” Sherlock tells her as he moves himself around the bed, somehow managing to not jostle John too badly, until he is finally sitting on the edge of the mattress with his legs hanging off it and his body blocking the doctor's.

“Tsk, tsk,” Irene purrs, “If you would have bothered to check your text messages, you would know exactly why I am here, sweetness.” She settles back into the chair and crosses her very tight denim-clad legs.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her but does take his phone out of his pocket and looks at it, suspicious. There's only one text:

_Moran escaped. My team is being dealt with accordingly. Security detail being sent to you in the meantime. -MH_

Sherlock huffs again. “ _You_ are the security?”

Irene actually laughs. She puts her hand over her mouth and snorts so loud John pushes Sherlock out of the way so he can see it. He takes off the oxygen mask.

“What?”

Sherlock moves again to try and block John, but now John has figured out what he is doing, even if the detective is unaware of it. He lays a hand on Sherlock's arm and pushes so that he can face Irene as well.

“You're dead.” John points out.

Irene laughs again. “Dear John, I do believe you've gotten a bit slow in your old age.” She starts to pat John's arm but a deep rumble from Sherlock's chest stays her hand. “Mmm...he's much feistier than he was last time I saw him.”

Sherlock tilts his head in John's direction, but it seems like John is going to let that one slide for the moment.

“Moran,” Sherlock says simply.

Irene nods, her expression serious now. “I heard through the grapevine that you brought them all down and he was the last.”

Sherlock says nothing but he knows that she can read the answer on his face as easily as John does.

“Good, the rumors are true, then.” Irene uncrosses her legs and stands up, moving to the window and peeking behind the curtain. “I do believe your _security_ has arrived.”

Neither of the men on the bed say anything and Sherlock still doesn't understand why Irene is even there. “Irene,” he starts.

She holds up one hand. “Just trust me this time.”

With that, she steps backwards and pushes the door open to the loo and pulls it closed just as the door to John's room opens from the outside.


	7. P.I: Bargaining Chip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say..." -Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Sherlock plants both feet stubbornly on the floor and crosses his arms over his chest in order to face whatever mindless security drone Mycroft has flung in their direction this time, even though something about the entire situation doesn't sit right with him: as fast as Mycroft can be, this is _too fast_.

For a few seconds he hears the back-beat of the song playing in the club where [he quite literally ran into Irene last](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1029078). He pulls out of it before the whole scene can begin to replay in his mind and looks up at the man who is standing in the doorway now, pointing a gun directly at them.

John inhales sharply, recognizing Colonel Moran.

Moran is wide enough that his shoulders touch either side of the doorway.

Sherlock moves again so that his body is blocking John and carefully begins an attempt at drawing Moran's attention to himself.

“So you've come to finish the job you botched earlier?” Sherlock deadpans, letting his gaze wander from the muddy hems of the man's khakis to the bruise across his cheek. The big man looks exhausted, almost leaning against the door jamb.

“I can't figure out why you have been so difficult to kill, Mister Holmes,” Moran states, his eyes like chipped flint.

Sherlock sighs dramatically but carefully controls himself, unsure just how trigger-happy Moran really is and unwilling to find out, so he does what he does best in these situations: he mentally shuts down and concentrates on the gun and not John or Irene. Sherlock takes a deep breath and freezes like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car; a last ditch effort to ensure the survival of the one person who means _everything_ to him.

In the mind palace, Sherlock's three reflections meet him in the corridor. They have taken a more corporeal form, so much so that their bodies cast shadows in the dancing candlelight of the sconces. The trio is silent but they all track his movements as he paces the corridor.

“I have to keep John safe at any cost,” the detective tells them as he runs his hands through his hair.

Cruel frowns at him, his mouth twisted wryly and shakes his head as if Sherlock is the biggest idiot in the entire galaxy. Guilty grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around then reaches up and open-handedly slaps him hard across the cheek. Even standing five feet away from them, Sherlock feels the sting of the slap.

Cruel drops his head then his entire body against the wall and slides down it, staring at the floor, slumping like a marionette with its strings slashed. It is the closest to admitting defeat that any of them have seen yet. Guilty watches for a moment then drops down next to him. Guilty tugs at his bleached locks and wraps an arm around the shoulders of his brother, pulling him in close. Cruel doesn't look up, but Guilty's eyes are locked on Machine.

Machine stands stock still, hands behind his back, copying the way Sherlock carries his when he is deep in thought. His square jaw is clenched shut, the muscles straining, the joint creaking. His head follows Sherlock's pacing.

“Speak." Sherlock orders.

Machine speaks slowly, his voice deeper than Sherlock's and with a rusty-sounding timbre.

“It is either him or you.”

“That is not an answer,” Sherlock hisses. He is not going through this _again_. Not now, not after working so hard to destabilize Moriarty's empire..not when he is this close to finally having his life back.

“We can do better than this.”

Machine's head moves back and forth slowly at Sherlock's words. The argument then becomes a moot point, because a gun has just gone off in the little hospital room. In the instant between hearing it and returning to the himself, Sherlock envisions several paths a ricocheting projectile can make in a room this size—he disregards all of them because the end result is the same in each. The world about him is quaking and rocking. It makes no sense...

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” John is shaking him by the shoulders.

Sherlock's eyes snap back into focus and he looks directly at John. John stutters out something then leans his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. The detective responds in the best way he knows: he wraps his arm around the smaller man, despite his heightened awareness of what is going on around them. After a few seconds, he looks up to confirm what he believes has happened.

Irene, as she is wont to do, has made a snap decision and is now standing with one foot on the back of the broad shoulder of Moran like a big game hunter with their prize. Sherlock's eyes pass over the ever-widening pool of blood that gleams against the white tiles to Irene's face. She is smiling and there is a light spray of blood droplets there that could pass for tiny pinpoint freckles to those who do not know any better.

“Thank you,” is all Sherlock can muster before he twists himself in order to bury his head into John's chest.

He begins to weep silently until John starts murmuring words of comfort and then Sherlock lets loose, lets everything out that he's been holding in, and tries not to take too much of what John has to give, because in his subconscious, he knows he still doesn't deserve it. 

***

 As Sherlock sobs, several things happen in order very fast: the real security detail shows up and take one look around, ascertain that Sherlock and John are as well as they can be at the moment then make a phone call each. Two other members of Mycroft's team-that-does-not-exist appear out of the ether in order to claim Moran's body. Someone else, later John will say it was a member of the hospital's housekeeping staff, cleans up the blood. Irene hangs out in the shadows, watching everything. Occasionally, her hand wanders to the pocket of her jeans as if looking for something.

Mycroft himself strolls through a few moments later, casually swinging his umbrella, just as Sherlock is pulling away from John and apologizing profusely.

There are several tense heartbeats as the four of them regard each other. Mycroft's gaze flickers over the tight embrace that John and Sherlock have tangled themselves into, yet he says nothing. He turns to Irene who has dropped into another chair next to the door to the loo, both hands now relaxed in her lap but still holding onto her gun.

Mycroft steps forward and holds out his empty hand. She looks him over, nods, and passes over the weapon. In return, he pulls a smart phone from his pocket and holds it out to her.

“Ms. Adler, I do believe you've upheld your end of the bargain.”

A shy smirk plays over Irene's mouth. She copies Mycroft's movement earlier, cutting her eyes to the wondrously silent John-and-Sherlock shaped lump on the bed.

“It is obvious they're not paying any attention to us anymore.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft answers, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

Irene stands, takes two steps towards Mycroft and deftly grabs the back of his neck, forcing him to lean down so that she can kiss his cheek. He frowns and waves his hand at the bodyguard who has gone tense in the doorway. The bodyguard stands down but Irene does not, she holds herself there, stretched up on her toes and meets Mycroft's cerulean gaze.

“Perhaps I've been crushing on the wrong Holmes,” she pouts.

Mycroft pulls away from her easily, almost picking her up. She is forced to let go, but she does so without any spite or malice.

“Until next time?” Irene asks, her expression honest and open.

“Honestly, Ms. Adler, I am hoping there will not be a _next time,_ ” Mycroft stares at her and twirls the brolly around on its point. “However, the answer is yes-if necessary.”

“You know how to reach me,” she states as she backs towards the door, still hesitant even after all this time to turn her back to Mycroft. An image of a snake and a mongoose comes unbidden into her mind; she lets it go and makes her way out.

He does not answer but calmly watches her leave. Mycroft looks to his brother and John, observes their synchronous breathing for a moment then walks towards his bodyguard.

“Sleep well, little brother,” he whispers as he closes the door. Things should now be looking up for them, as they should be: this last little _error_ aside, Mycroft is fully back in control, where he belongs.


	8. P.I: Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends...But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change." - Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Sherlock is standing in the center of a large, open room in the mind palace, stark naked. He leans forward and squints a little against the brightness of the room around him that is being reflected from the polished glass that he faces.

The room is one of the myriad of versions in the mind palace of the lounge at Baker Street except that there are no windows: they've all been replaced by shiny floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The carpet beneath his bare feet is much softer and more plush than in life.

Everything around him is bright, the rays of dawn's pale golden light like tongues of flame delicately touching every piece of furniture and their things—his and John's—allowing him to take in even the finest details: a minute scratch on the desk next to John's empty, but spotlessly clean, coffee mug; a bump in the spine of an old red book; even the tiniest change in the shades of the dust that lines the topmost shelf. He does not question the logic of such light filtering into the room even with the lack of windows.

Sherlock calmly regards these images in the mirror, allowing himself to take in _everything_. He does not shy away from looking at himself the way he so often studies other people, whether they're alive or dead. He recognizes that he is alone in the mirror for the first time since he was a child: this is a fascinating discovery.

Besides being alone, his singular reflection has indeed changed—as does everyone's as they pass through the rigors of life. Now he steps closer to the glass because something new has been added; nothing as simple as a silver hair, a mole or growing crow's feet beside his eyes; no, this is something that did not originate in his own genetic code.

Sherlock gently fingers the tiny silver beads that make up the chain around his neck. Silver disks rest against his breastbone. He touches them, carefully, using his fingertips to read the name printed there that is not his own, but is just as familiar.

Sherlock curls his hand around the disks and presses them tight against his palm. The thin metal is warm. He shifts in an effort to see how the dog tags look hanging on his pale, scarred chest.

A metallic clinking sound draws his attention downward and gracefully he steps out of a pair of rusted shackles that apparently had been around his ankles seconds ago. The meaning of this is immediately clear: he is no longer fettered against his emotion for one John Watson.

With this realization comes an epiphany that rocks him to his toes and he lays a hand flat against the cool surface of the glass to steady himself. Once more, Sherlock catches the intense expression on his own face in the mirror as he allows his eyes to slip closed on an exhale. It is time to go back.

 

On the inhale, Sherlock opens his eyes and is surprised to discover that he is flat on his back and someone—John—is leaning over him.

For once, Sherlock doesn't think before he wraps his arms around John's shoulders and pulls him down so that their faces are only millimeters apart. He knows he is crying again, sobbing shamelessly, his chest hitching horribly. For an instant, he fears the loss of the tags around his neck, but then remembers that they only exist in the mind palace; their cool warmth only a product of his subconsciousness.

“Sherlock, it's fine, it's all fine. Hush now, hush,” John croons softly but the tight grip he's got on Sherlock's shoulders give him away.

For a few seconds, Sherlock is forced once again into the overwhelming heaviness of his sorrow in bringing to this wonderful man the pain that he has caused.

“I am...” he trails off, caught up in attempting to speak and sob at the same time, “I am so sorry, John. So sorry.”

John murmurs kind words of reassurance as he pulls Sherlock upward against him. He is sitting up on the bed now, his legs stretched out in front of him, cradling Sherlock's shoulders in his arms. John rocks back and forth slightly, giving as much comfort as he is receiving from the simple act of holding another human being close to his chest.

The tension between them slowly begins to fade and change, until Sherlock's ear is pressed against John's heart and he is almost completely curled up in John's lap, knees drawn up and feet flat on the hard mattress between John's thighs.

Sherlock feels the kiss that John drops on the top of his head before he readjusts them so that they are both lying down again, this time with John on his back. Sherlock curves his spine so that he is able to touch John at as many points as possible.

They sleep this way until late afternoon when they are awoken by a nurse letting John know that he will be discharged the next morning. Neither of them mention that what they are doing is way beyond what is considered to be the boundaries of 'normal' friendship.

Both of them eat a bit of supper from John's tray, Sherlock enjoying poking as much sarcastic fun at the slightly-overcooked fish fingers on the plate as he is able, John enjoying the half-orgasmic expression on Sherlock's face when he plows through John's chocolate pudding.

After eating and taking turns in the shower, they settle back into the bed and John flips through several channels on the television before turning it off with a sigh. The better he begins to feel, the more restless he is becoming; the thought of going back to his lonely little place is only a little better than staying here. John blows a raspberry.

“I'm ready to go home,” he tells Sherlock needlessly.

“I know," comes a rumbled mumble from somewhere near John's navel. If he were feeling better, the vibration of it would make him giggle.

Sherlock can feel the look he receives from John, then John's hand is in his hair and he can't stop the sigh that starts at his toes until it finally works its way past his lips. The air around them crackles and Sherlock sits up so that he can see John's face.

John says nothing, merely hooks his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and reels him in; when their lips finally touch, it is understood that he is the lightning and John is the grounding rod.

When John pulls back, Sherlock follows him on instinct. John's tongue gently swipes at Sherlock's mouth and he begins to drown in the sensation of not only being _wanted_ but also of being _loved._


	9. P.I: Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back..." F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Sherlock's lips part on a sigh and John slowly draws out this kiss by taking his time exploring the detective's mouth with his own. Here on this narrow bed, they can do no more than push against one another, though Sherlock decides he will take anything John is ready to give. John's heart thrumming beneath the thin layers of their clothing reminds him where _his_ heart lives...it is more addicting than any street drug by far and certainly more exquisite in its results.

John's fingers tangle in the curls at the back of Sherlock's head, pulling slightly and unknowingly keeping him from floating away. When they break again, Sherlock drops his forehead to John's shoulder and closes his eyes, fighting wave after wave of the layers of desire that he has for his best friend. He reminds himself that John has been injured and too much strain on the wound is a terrible idea, regardless of what his now-aching bullocks are trying to tell his brain.

In retrospect, even this is more than he ever hoped to have from John, so he will take it and be satisfied until such time that they agree to move to the next to step.

Sherlock does not doubt for a millisecond that they are most certainly headed to a next step, however and whenever that occurs. No one kisses with that much passion who isn't prepared to take the physicality further. He groans a little against John's shoulder, prompting John to rub his back in slow, ever widening circles from spine to ribcage. He sags against the doctor, allowing John to all but prop him up. Exhaustion and worry are finally taking their toll.

Sherlock checks in with the mind palace and finds that he is not alone in this brightly lit corridor. Cruel and Guilty are gone along with the deep shadows that have always plagued the place, but Machine faces him with an expression Sherlock has not seen before: inquisitive, even with the eye patch. Sherlock notes that his cyborg reflection no longer has a label: his deeply-lined forehead is clear of any writing. Machine cocks his head, his eye dark gleaming, pinning Sherlock to the spot. There is movement behind him and some one steps out from behind the muscular alter.

This newcomer is a John clone, in most every way except that that his hair is golden and he wears a set of long white robes that part to reveal a shining suit of silver chain mail. Machine grins warmly then holds out a hand towards John and fades away. The doctor/warrior smiles at Sherlock and it is so beatific that Sherlock rocks back on his heels. Only then does he notice the gold-plated shield propped up against the wall: a pure white field emblazoned with the chunky scarlet cross of the medical corps.

In all of the ways Sherlock has envisioned John, this is completely new: a fresh example of how—even as much as he forces his subconscious to bend to his will—how even he is not always in full control. This John tilts his chin up and tracks Sherlock's smallest movements with his eyes. Here in the mind palace, John's eyes are the clear blue of the Mediterranean Sea. Sherlock reaches out to touch John's face but never quite gets there before he nods off again, safe in the circle of the real John's arms.

 

***

The next few hours pass quickly, until finally John has been discharged and they ultimately wind up on the pavement outside the hospital, Sherlock pushing the wheelchair that the hospital staff insisted that John leave in. They are watching one of Mycroft's cars pull up to the curb and suddenly the heavy realization that John may choose to go back to his own dismal flat descends over Sherlock and he pulls up short, hard enough to make the wheels on the chair squeak against the pavement.

“What?” John asks as he looks back at the detective. Sherlock has gone still, his fingers are tightly gripping the plastic handles of the wheelchair, face blank.

John knows where he's gone, so he waits. The car on the curb waits and all the people bustling about them wait.

In the corridor, Doctor/Warrior John is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He smiles up at Sherlock and waits, too.

“Ask him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods and easily slips back to the swirling buzz of life around them.

“Come home, John.” Sherlock flicks the brake on the wheelchair and moves around to face the doctor. He kneels down on the ground, expression open; for once hoping that he's doing the right thing by letting John _see,_ because he can clearly spot the arguments John wants to lay out against doing that very thing. But for Sherlock, it has been much too long—he hasn't yet been back to the flat: John is, and he knows now, will always be, his first priority.

A thousand emotions flicker over John's face until Sherlock can see the decision has been made. John doesn't need to speak it aloud.

“Thank you,” he whispers. John nods and cups the side of his face for a second. Sherlock gets the impression that just maybe he grounds John as much as John does the same for him.

In the back seat of the car, Sherlock whips a quick text to his brother.

***

Sherlock makes sure John is settled on the sofa before moving deeper into the flat. For once, he is grateful that Mrs. Hudson is so taken with dusting. After prowling through the rooms, he flicks on a shiny new electric tea kettle on the kitchen bench beside two brand-new boxes of tea; both of them obviously Mycroftian gifts. Expertly, he makes two mugs of tea and carries them into the sitting room, thinking that he is going to have to wake John up to get his.

He is mistaken, though, because John's eyes are following him even as he sets the cups on the coffee table and flicks on the lamp. He hasn't yet opened the drapes, because frankly, he wants to hold onto the newly intimate feeling of a world inhabited by just the two of them for a little while longer. Sherlock curls up in his chair, feet planted on the edge of it, and rests his mug on one knee. He fumbles for the television remote and clears his throat. John beats him to it, this time.

“Sherlock, no. Over here with me.”

Sherlock turns so fast he almost drops the mug, knowing he looks ridiculous but John smiles warmly and pushes himself up into a sitting position.

“Come on,” he beckons.

Sherlock is certainly not going to refuse him twice. He unfolds himself carefully and then refolds next to John, attempting to give the other man space and largely failing. It seems to be alright, though, because John grabs the remote and flips on the television, then leans back and presses his shoulder against Sherlock's as he sips his tea. Emboldened now, Sherlock gulps his down and sets the mug on the floor then proceeds to relish in John's warmth and ignore the inane show that John is watching. At some point, they fall asleep.

***

Mycroft steps in through the door and pauses, the only indication that he is somewhat surprised by the scene that greets him. Both John and Sherlock are asleep, John sitting up with his left hand buried in Sherlock's hair because Sherlock's head is pillowed on John's thigh. An empty ceramic mug dangles from the fingers of John's right hand. Sherlock has managed to squeeze himself into the last two thirds of the old sofa so that his legs are bent and his feet are resting on the arm of it. The television is on, but turned down so low that the chatter is merely white noise.

Mycroft gently nudges one of Sherlock's feet with his palm and Sherlock jerks back on an impulse and opens his eyes. He frowns up at his brother and Mycroft silently counts to three. Sherlock blinks and Mycroft sees the realization hit. Sherlock nods. This time the movement of his head awakens John, who stretches gingerly, awkwardly moving his hand from Sherlock's hair to his shoulder where his blunt fingers curl around it firmly. The action wrinkles Sherlock's shirt a bit and Mycroft raises his eyebrow. Sherlock frowns again as if daring him to say anything. Mycroft shakes his head slightly and offers his brother a very small, cheeky grin that seems to pacify him.

John's hand grips Sherlock's shoulder tightly as he becomes aware of a looming presence near them. Even injured as he is, the retired soldier radiates pure protective power. Mycroft knows that the painkillers have made the doctor a bit slow to react, yet he can read the _Mine_ in John's action as clearly as if it were shouted from the rooftops. In truth, Mycroft actually appreciates and is grateful for it.

With the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Mycroft moves fully into the room and watches as a big man wearing a fine suit and a military haircut enters holding John's duffel bag a little higher than absolutely necessary before setting it down in the floor at the end of the sofa. It seems to do the trick, though, letting the just-awakened soldier see that there is no threat.

“Thank you,” John tells them truthfully. Mycroft's man gives a respectful nod in an ambiguous direction before turning on his heel and leaving as quickly as he appeared. Sherlock's eyes slip closed again when he realizes John isn't going to move.

“All is well, then, I shall take my leave. Sherlock, do text Anthea with anything either of you need for the next few days.”

Sherlock opens his mouth but not his eyes. John's hand tightens a fraction as he thanks Mycroft again. Mycroft glides out the door and almost-soundlessly descending the staircase, then with a soft click the outside door is closed in a polite fashion.

 _Excellent_ , thinks Sherlock as he tries to slip back into semi-unconscious bliss.

“Sherlock, let's at least change clothes and get into one of the beds. Would that be acceptable?” John's grip has changed, now his fingers have slid back into Sherlock's hair.

When Sherlock doesn't answer, John pats the top of his head and tries again. “Okay, that's fine, I get it. Too much, too fast, just please let me up for a few minutes, I'll come back.”

“No.” Sherlock turns so that his face is pressed against John's belly.

“No? Well then, I'll go upstairs. It's fine, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson left clean linens up there sometime.”

Sherlock can see that John is missing the point. He takes a deep breath and speaks into the darkness made between his face and John's shirt: “No, it is not _too much_ and no about the clothes. There's a better way.”

“Oh.” Sherlock can hear when John blinks down at him, suddenly understanding.

“Just sleep, John.” Sherlock sits up, swinging his legs off the arm of the couch and causing the springs beneath them to protest.

It takes them fifteen minutes to run through their respective routines and they are curled up in Sherlock's freshly made bed. John falls right to sleep, but Sherlock remains awake, useless for anything at this point save for watching over the man in his arms and reflecting on what is has taken to finally get him here.


	10. P.I: Always Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.”  
> ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

At some point just after sunrise, Sherlock gradually blinks awake, his mind groggy with exhaustion and the tension that has resulted from reappearing among the living. He is aware that there is still yet many things they need to discuss…and perhaps even one particularly large thing, but for now he wants to keep everything behind the doors of Baker Street. Beside him, John’s half-naked body radiates heat so Sherlock shoves both the blanket and sheet off of them; they end up in a heap on the floor.

“Good morning.” John’s voice is husky from the lengthy rest; the tone causes Sherlock to smile despite himself.

John stretches then rolls onto his good side so they face one another. His blue eyes roam Sherlock’s face before finally settling on his mouth. Sherlock has a quick flash of insight from the mind palace, though in truth it feels an awful lot like being _pushed_ forward. He frowns and John starts to draw back with a muttered apology.

“No,” Sherlock demands and grabs John by the shoulders to haul him down. When their lips come together, Sherlock sighs and throws his leg over John’s pajama-clad hip. No one can miss _that_ ; besides John hasn’t been surprised about anything so far, even the fact Sherlock sleeps in the nude, so maybe this is that _next step_ he had been thinking about yesterday.

In the midst of his whirling thoughts and pounding heart, Sherlock masterfully parts John’s lips with his tongue and receives a hum in reply; he does his best to get as close as he is able, finally settling for a slow, maddening rub against John’s thigh. John licks at Sherlock’s mouth, then down the side of his jaw; at the same time he grabs a handful of Sherlock’s behind and kneads at the muscle there.

Sherlock grinds harder and John rolls his hips, offering the friction Sherlock is so obviously seeking as well as taking some for himself.

“Tell me what you need,” John says then lets his palm trail from Sherlock’s bum over his thigh to stop with his fingers curled around the base of Sherlock’s cock.

“Ah, John!” Sherlock shouts and throws his head back, baring his neck. He groans louder when John sets his teeth to a spot to the left of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. Sherlock decides that this is so much better than _talking_.

“Brilliant,” John whispers in between nips and licks. “Amazing, wonderful. Sherlock, tell me what you need.”

Sherlock bucks harder and John squeezes him; he growls under his breath and John squeezes harder. As much as he wants to say what he knows John wants to hear, it is too late. As soon as he gets his lips around the words, he bucks upward and John lets go. A steady, crystalline gaze holds Sherlock in place then John says one of the most erotic things he's ever heard:

“I want to see you come, Sherlock.”

Oh, how he does.

The bedroom fades away and Sherlock is suddenly in another room of the mind palace; this one much smaller than many of the others. The atmosphere here is closer, more _intimate_. The windows are draped in thick blue material, as is the large, round bed. Sherlock holds himself up with one hand against the wall, panting. He wonders vaguely why, out of the twenty-seven other times he’s climaxed with other human beings the act of physical release has never sent him this far before. If a simple hand job forces him _here_ , then logic dictates that he must accept that he’s in for a serious awakening.

 _Here_ is, of course, one of the very-rarely used rooms, in fact, it is visited so little that he has practically forgotten about it; as much as Sherlock can forget anything. He stands up slowly, and only then does he notice that his Doctor/Warrior John is lying on the bed on his belly, chin resting on crossed arms. He is nude, the robes and mail he wore earlier spread beneath him like a blanket. Sherlock can’t keep his eyes off of John’s muscular back and shoulders as the man slowly rolls over and licks his lips, wearing the same hungry expression that graced real life John’s face when he watched…

“Sherlock,” he says and grins wolfishly.

“Sherlock!” Real John calls out, his voice low but loud enough to distract Sherlock and hopefully not wake Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock blinks his eyes and grins. “Hi John.”

John doesn’t say anything else for a moment, instead he pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace. Sherlock breathes hard against him and wonders what his pulse rate is. John’s heart is thudding in time to Sherlock’s own; the detective pictures a metronome.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John has moved back some so that he can see Sherlock’s face more clearly. 

Sherlock nods, something even he is aware is out of character for him; he feels floaty, almost like being high. “It’s been awhile," he mumbles, suddenly embarrassed. 

John snorts. He smiles, allowing some of the tension that has built up in the room to disintegrate. Sherlock certainly isn’t feeling too much of it—he could almost swear he’s never been this pliant in his entire life; at the moment, he can’t actually _say_ that, though, so he just grins back. John leans in carefully and kisses him softly on his lips, then again on each side of his mouth. Sherlock allows himself drown in the sensation and casually rests his hands on John’s hips. As their kiss begins to heat up, he tightens his grip and John winces.

Sherlock pulls his hand away as if he’s been burnt.

“Its fine, Sherlock, really.” John holds his hand to his side. “I’ve just irritated it a little, that’s all.” He scoots so that his legs hang off the side of the bed, his bum pressed against Sherlock’s long leg.

It seems to take a minute for Sherlock to come back online. He gazes at John’s back and fights the urge to touch, to see if the reality matches the fantasy in his head. He frowns just as John turns towards him and clears his throat. Sherlock wonders if his throat still hurts.

“Do we really need to discuss this?”

Sherlock is unable to do anything other than stare at John. It seems he is seeing mind palace John and real life John at the same time. They don’t look that different, except mind palace John has a particularly rosy glow about him that real life John seems to be missi…

Oh! Oh god, his first time with his real-life lover and he’s already gone and messed up. Granted, John has full disclosure to all of his possessive and jealous tendencies, but still—he drops his gaze to the front of John’s pajama bottoms. This time, the urge to touch is overwhelming. He drops his hand to John’s thigh and leans forward so that his breath will be right over John’s ear.

“John, do you really believe you need to discuss fidelity with me? Do you really need to hear me say those words to you?” _After everything_.

John shakes his head, “Not as such, no. Just so we are on the same level, Sherlock.” His tone is steely.

Sherlock huffs playfully and the sound it pulls from John is making Sherlock wonder what his neck _tastes_ like. Taking the chance to trust that John will tell him if he makes a wrong move, since he always has before, Sherlock gets even closer. His lips brush John’s collar bone when he speaks.

“Loyalty has always been a strong point amongst my myriad of failings, John.” Lick. “On the other hand, _Three Continents Watson_ …”

John cocks his head to the side, giving Sherlock more space. He is supporting himself with one hand planted on the bed and the other is now around Sherlock’s shoulders, almost-but-not-quite pulling him into John’s body. Sherlock moves carefully so he doesn’t add too much weight to John’s injured side.

“There’s no comparison,” John whispers in a scratchy tone.

Sherlock pulls back and stares into John’s face. After a time, he sees what he’s looking for, “You _mean_ that.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I do,” John’s expression is open, honest.

Sherlock almost lets himself wander back to the mind palace, then manages to stay in control, because what is happening right now is of the utmost importance. He nods and kisses John soundly, fully intending on repaying the favor and only slightly being distracted by a soft thud down downstairs. His fingers have just begun their travels between John’s lovely warm skin under his tee shirt and the waistband of his soft pajamas when the sound of footsteps becomes less a gentle thump and more firm—two sets, one male, one female—and then the squeak of the door and Mrs. Hudson calls out,

“John, is that you?”

John’s eyes widen in surprise and Sherlock yanks his hand from John’s pajamas. Too late, Sherlock realizes that he might have forgotten something that may or not be deemed _pretty important_ by the two people who are three seconds from passing by the open bedroom door and getting an eyeful of John Watson and someone they still believe to be dead.

There’s always _something_.


	11. P.I: Truth is Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are all types of love in this world, but never the same love twice.”  
> ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 
> 
> "A loving heart is the truest wisdom."  
> \- Charles Dickens

Sherlock Holmes will never admit to doing anything as pedestrian as panicking—that time a couple of days ago notwithstanding—but if there was ever a time to do it, that would probably be about…

…now.

He gets to the bedroom door too late to close it and now he is staring down at Mrs. Hudson, who is looking up at him in disbelief, one hand covering her mouth. Behind him, John is moving out of the weird position he landed in when Sherlock bounded for the door. He is saying _something_ but Sherlock is pretty much frozen to the spot; mind running a million miles a minute and he has quickly cataloged all of the things that could possibly happen to Mrs. Hudson as a result of suffering a shock such as this.

Of course, what really happens turns out to be completely unpredictable.

Mrs. Hudson’s hand drops away from her mouth that is now set into a firm line. She frowns up at the man she’s always seen as an adopted son and steps forward, holding out that hand. Sherlock recoils but then grabs at the dressing gown that it is now obvious she’s taken from John. In the midst of it all, Sherlock’s completely forgotten he’s as naked as the day he was born.

“Sherlock Holmes, you can come back from the dead but you can’t remember to be _decent_?” Mrs. Hudson admonishes in a tone just a smidge higher than her normal speaking voice. There's not a quaver to be heard.

“And, you, young man! You don’t come to see me for _months_ ….and…and what happened to your face, John?” Her voice cracking, their not-landlady rounds on John and faces him with her hands on her hips while Sherlock does his level best to improve the decency situation.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson, really, I’m fine,” John croaks out as she pulls him into a bear hug. He groans a little when her arms tighten on his injured side and she lets go.

“John Watson! You’re injured!” She turns, hands back on her hips and scowls up at Sherlock who sheepishly looks down at his bare feet. He wiggles his toes and looks just about as guilty as only she can make him feel. It's not as if he _caused_ John's injury, well, mostly. 

Mrs. Hudson grabs the arm on John’s good side and tows him towards the sitting room, babbling excitedly about everything, though the only word Sherlock cares to make out of it all is _tea._ He keeps his head down and makes to follow but is stopped in his tracks by a big hand on his chest.

“Sherlock,” Greg Lestrade growls quietly, quickly getting over his initial shock. “I’m not even going to ask,” he says when Sherlock’s eyes meet his.

They are level with each other but Sherlock seems to shrink as Greg draws his arm back. Perhaps it’s just the emotional hurricane from the past few days, but Sherlock is so unbalanced, when Greg hugs him, he leans into it and rests his forehead against Greg’s shoulder. He sighs and Greg pats his back.

“Don’t think this gets you out of explaining, Sherlock. Anderson’s been following me all over town trying to convince me you aren’t dead…well, obviously, but still,” Greg says gruffly.

“Not dead,” Sherlock mumbles. He finally realizes how stupid this must look so he straightens up and clears his throat, trying to recapture whatever dignity still remains to him.

Greg slaps his back and heads out to the sitting room, giving Sherlock some space to recover. Greg’s no fool, he’s seen enough in the last five minutes to know what a roller coaster ride Sherlock’s been on. He takes John’s seat and drags it across from the sofa as Mrs. Hudson comes through from the kitchen with a tea tray that she sets on the coffee table between them. Sherlock joins them shortly, padding in quietly like a little boy who knows he’s about to get a lecture and is doing his best to not irritate the adults and make his punishment worse.

When he looks at John, John smiles with only the slightest wince and Sherlock believes everything really is going to work out. For now, though, he knows that he’d better start talking.

***

John is already stretched out on his back snoring softly when Mrs. Hudson decides she has stayed long enough. She closes the door with a promise to bring up some breakfast in the morning— _just this once, mind you_ —and Sherlock discovers he’s got a very large warm spot right next to the other large warm spot that belongs to John in the middle of his chest for her. He sighs and wanders towards the bedroom. Greg only hung around for an hour or so, saying he had to get back to work and telling John that he happened to see the address when Mrs. Hudson called in a report that there were people making noise in the upstairs flat because he was passing by the dispatcher's desk on his way to get coffee.

Sherlock _and_ John are both glad for that, too.

Part of him wants to curl up next to John and spend the night cataloging his every movement, every breath, every eye movement…really, though, John _is_ injured and does need his rest. Mrs. Hudson took one look at them once they were settled with their tea and told him flat out in a no-nonsense voice that he should not be exhausting the good doctor with _bedroom_ activities.

At that point, John almost wore all of Greg’s tea. Sherlock knows he blushed like a schoolgirl and John grinned at Greg's expression. Well, at least that was settled now.

After Greg left and John went to bed, Mrs. Hudson subjected Sherlock to a stern lecture the likes he’d never receive from his own mother: in between the harsh words, the woman wove a stream of…what? Fondness? Love? For him? For John? Doesn’t matter, because it all boils down to the fact that Mrs. Hudson thinks of John and himself as “her boys” and if Sherlock ever pulls such a stupid stunt again, she’ll…

He never let her finish that train of thought, because he felt that she should be aware of the truth. At that point, she hugged him and cried into his chest for a bit. He is fairly certain he shed some tears as well, but best not to dwell on that. Sherlock watches John for a few moments longer and pads down the hallway in order to draw himself a hot bath. It only takes him about thirty seconds to shimmy out of the pajama trousers he’d changed into before joining them all for tea and about three to untie the sash of his dressing gown and drop it to the floor.

The steam from the water wafts around him and Sherlock knows it is going to do horrible things to his hair. That useless bit of information gets pushed away as he settles against the tub and stretches out his legs, enjoying the way the muscles begin to relax as they absorb the heat. He closes his eyes and instead of pushing his hands together under his chin, he lets them rest on the side of the tub, fingers relaxed and pointing towards the floor. Somehow, tonight, everything feels _complete_ , as if all the puzzle pieces in his life are where they should be.

For the first time in way too long, Sherlock can finally allow himself to really relax, safe in the knowledge Moriarty and Moran are dead and buried; Irene is not in the local vicinity, thanks to Mycroft; and John is safely and securely asleep in the bedroom. In Sherlock’s bed.

Precisely the way everything should be, save for John’s injuries. Shortly, though, they won’t matter much, except as memories. To John, anyway; Sherlock knows he will never forget them.

Sherlock uses his toes to shut off the water when it begins to creep up towards the top of the bathtub. He rests the back of his head against the tile wall and concentrates for a moment on the mind palace.

***

Tonight the corridors of the mind palace are hushed, even his own footsteps on the hardwood flooring is almost inaudible. He looks up to a high, vaulted ceiling that is painted in a style similar to that one big church in Italy he’s never bothered to remember before, other than to know it is famous for its paintings. Of course, there will be no chubby cherubs or old men with long, white beards. No, Sherlock’s ceiling is covered with scenes from many of his cases, both solved and unsolved: there’s even a tiny painting of a pair of diamond cuff links ( _John, all my shirts have buttons_ ) as well as several portraits of particular people they’ve helped in the past.

Right smack in the center is a small child with a mask flipped up over her head. She is smiling and Sherlock can make out the shiny gold beads that decorate the multitude of braids sticking out from her head. Sherlock remembers the mask well, because John said it looked like a comic book villain called ‘The Green Goblin,' though the rubbery plastic hadn’t held the dye correctly and it was a very bright yellow, virtually the same color as the face Sherlock had spray painted on the wall of the flat to use as a target when he found John’s gun. Little Lucy’s brown eyes are full of light and her beautiful smile will always be a reminder that even he makes mistakes.

Very methodically, Sherlock clears a corner spot in a large painting of a darkened landscape of Dartmoor. A new picture, one of John’s eyes staring in shock at him over the oxygen tube from a few days ago will serve as a second reminder. When it is complete, the painting is striking—a close enough resemblance that it seems John is really looking at him.

In the bathtub in the small bathroom in Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sighs deeply and a single tear falls down his cheek. He wipes it away automatically, still putting the finishing details on John’s painting in the mind palace, and seems almost unaware of it.

From the doorway where he is taking in his beautiful friend-and-something more, John is most certainly not.

 

***

John begins to wake up as soon as he hears the taps on the bathtub come on. He stretches carefully so as to avoid aggravating the wound in his side then starts to scratch at the stitches on his face but stops himself from doing it. He climbs out of the bed and stands for a moment, thinking of how so much of his life has changed—from feeling like it was practically _over_ to waking up in the hospital to find Sherlock watching over him.

As unusual as that had been, it is even more unusual, to John anyway, how quickly he found it in his heart to forgive the crazy man. There was something so earnest in Sherlock’s eyes…something so…

John doesn’t even know. It’s never been easy for him to talk about his own emotions—hence the majority of failed appointments with psychiatrists and their ilk—and so he feels that may he doesn’t have any words for _this_ , at least not right now. Maybe in a week, a month, three months, three years even, he’ll break down and rail at Sherlock, probably even say some things he will regret, but at this point, he will bask in the attention he has been receiving and savor the intimate feeling of their flat, together, and with whatever that entails.

So, just now, that entails casually leaning against the wall watching Sherlock in the act of organizing, or cleaning up or whatever the heck he does there in the mind palace. Slight wisps of steam coil up from the water, making Sherlock’s hair frizz beautifully.

Sherlock makes a small sound and John’s eyes are immediately drawn to the tears falling from beneath his closed eyelids. One of them falls swiftly while the other gets caught on the end of a long, dark lash. John wants to walk closer, the uncertainty of their remaining boundaries—if there are any still—holding him in place. Sherlock’s hand flutters from the side of the tub and wipes his cheeks.

John can’t take it anymore. “Sherlock,” he says calmly.

Sherlock’s eyes close more tightly for a few seconds before he opens them. With the terrible lighting in this room, they look to John for all the world like pale green jade. When Sherlock smiles lightly, John’s heart fills up with all of the things he has not yet found the words to say. Sherlock holds out a hand towards him, palm up.

“Join me?” he asks.

John thinks it over and the affirmative is on his lips when he remembers the bandage on his side. He shakes his head, “No, I can’t. Is there anything I can do for you?”

John sits down on the edge and Sherlock rests his hand on his thigh, slowly stroking the cotton of John’s pajamas. He leans in to kiss his lips softly when Sherlock tilts his head upward.

“Sherlock,” John begins.

Sherlock’s smile falters a little. “Yes, John?"

John kisses him again, more than a simple press of lips, “I have a confession to make.”

“What would that be, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock’s mouth twists into a knowing smirk.

“I think I’m in love with you.” John hopes Sherlock cannot hear the terrifying noise his heart is making.

“Obviously,” Sherlock states as he runs his fingers up the inside of John’s leg, stopping before he reaches John’s balls.

“No, Sherlock, even beyond _that_.”

“I know, John.”

John wonders how Sherlock’s voice can be that much deeper, so much so that it echoes off the tile. “You do?”

“John, why do you think I came back?” Sherlock gazes up at him as if willing John’s much slower brain to make a fast connection.

“Oh,” John whispers as he captures Sherlock’s chin in his hand. After their lips touch this time, John pulls back and kisses Sherlock’s forehead then his chin.

“Yes.” Sherlock states firmly.

John chuckles under his breath. “Alright then."

Sherlock nods and pushes at the bathtub as if to stand.

“Sherlock, would you mind if I…?” John trails off, worried that he is going to sound ridiculous. He waves his fingers in the general direction of Sherlock’s hair.

“What?” Sherlock asks, frowning. He studies John’s face. “Yes, you may wash my hair, if that is your desire.”

John shakes his head, happy that he didn’t particularly have to _say_ anything. His emoto-phobia could actually pair very well with the fact that Sherlock has no problem telling other people what they think or what they want. He reaches for the bottle and squirts some of the stuff into his hand as Sherlock somehow manages to dunk himself under the water without splashing John. He pushes back up again, water streaming down his face and his back. John carefully pushes his fingers into the saturated mop and sighs contentedly.

 _Everything about you is my desire,_ he doesn’t say but tries to get across in his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: One, yes, I went there; and Two, three cheers for me finally getting back to a regular writing schedule! Number one thing is my second favorite canon story.


	12. P.I: Light as a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy."--Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Whilst John sleeps, Sherlock happily peruses a stack of old case files in the middle of the floor in the corridor with the high, painted ceiling. Ever since he finished the detail of John’s eyes, he keeps finding his virtual-self drawn here every so many hours. The reason why is unknown even to the great detective; as with so few things in his life, he simply accepts it and stops quelling the urge to look up every so often, enjoying the view behind his own closed lids of those gorgeous eyes. He is now able to admit that he missed them with a ferocity that is staggering.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the mind palace, an alarm clock is going off. Sherlock, paying very little attention to how many chimes echo through the place, lays aside the virtual file and stretches, arching his back and unfolding his legs effortlessly from the lotus position. He gets up off the carpet in a single movement and cruises down the corridor. With each step, a little more of it falls away behind him until an outsider would observe that he seems to be walking a path of _nothing_. Sherlock stares into the mirrored walls as he passes them, receiving a nod from Machine and a wink from Doctor/Warrior John. They appear to be enjoying a rather intense game of poker because Machine has a large stack of blue chips by his elbow; John has about ten, each alter then returning to the fan of cards in their respective hands. Sherlock nods back, noting that they are using his favorite deck, the one with the Jolly Roger pattern; he idly wonders if real life John is such a terrible card player.

 _Re: John and poker_ : another little note to add to the room of Things to Ask John.

Back in the bedroom in their flat, his gaze falls upon the empty spot beside him where John had been soundly dozing earlier. Sherlock has truly lost track of time and has no idea whether he has been in the mind palace for an hour or three. In a mirror movement to the one he performed in the mind palace, he uncrosses his legs and looks at the clock on the bedside table, surprised to find that it is well after noon. Forget three hours, apparently Sherlock has been digging through old files for six. He drags his palms over his face and opens the bedroom door, tightening the sash on his dressing gown. He needs to know just how upset John is going to be because he’s been ignored all this time; Sherlock knows that ignoring someone after they’ve been so attentive to your _needs_ the night before is probably not the best way to begin the day.

 ***

John waits in line at the grocery shop and frowns at the woman in the bright orange shirt having a very loud and very obnoxious conversation on her mobile in front of him. Apparently she owns as Shi-Tzu that bit somebody and it seems to him that she can’t decide if she is horrified or tickled about the whole thing. A small part of him wishes he would have waited to come out until Sherlock was awake or out of the mind palace, whichever of those two things he is actually doing (John suspects a little of both,) but there’s nothing in the kitchen at all, so he thought maybe he could be out and back before Sherlock decided to rejoin him.

Like all the best laid plans, however, John is stuck holding an overly cheery bright blue basket of foodstuffs while AnnoyingLadyWithTheBiteyShi-Tzu chatters away to the annoyance of everyone else in the store. Or maybe it’s only John that has somewhere else he’d much rather be. He sighs and watches hopefully as the woman pauses; people in the lanes on either side of the one he’s in look over; one lady even arches an eyebrow and looks incredibly unamused.

John daydreams about taking the phone away from the woman and saying something cleverly snarky like _Sorry, ma’am, this isn’t America_ , but he knows there’s probably only one person on the planet who could ever get away with that.

On second thought, perhaps two...and they are both named Holmes.

***

Sherlock begins his search in the kitchen. He scans the small space and moves to the sitting room. Didn’t Mrs. Hudson mention something about _breakfast_? Though he’s missed that by a landslide, without a doubt.

It was obvious when he first left the bedroom that the loo was vacant, so John’s not there, either. The sitting room is empty save for Sherlock’s miscellaneous stuff that has already begun to creep about the shelves and desks. Even Sherlock didn’t realize how quickly he could do that. He shrugs and climbs the steps to John’s Old Room, his heart beginning to beat a little harder.

***

Most likely all the customers still remaining in the entire store really, really want to give a shout in appreciation when the doors close behind the Loud Conversationalist Lady. John certainly does, but he would never do such a thing. He politely waits—again—for the spotty cashier to ring up his purchases, tosses some bills at her then politely grabs his bags and politely strolls to the door while some rather impolite thoughts swirl through his mind.

 ***

John’s Old Room is empty. There’s a few dusty boxes tucked up in the corner, the mattress is stripped and there are no pillows because those are down on Sherlock’s bed. Their Bed, now, really.

Sherlock’s heart pounds and the back of his neck prickles with heat.

 

***

John walks home briskly, ignoring everything else because he has just remembered he didn’t leave a note for Sherlock and wonders if the idiot genius will notice that he’s stowed what few clothes he has at the moment in Sherlock’s bureau. Respectfully, he stayed away from Sherlock’s socks and underpants. He hefts the grocery bags and eases into a quick marching pace to make some time.

***

Sherlock circles back to look in his bedroom again. Still no John. There’s a slight bit of noise from the mind palace, but he puts it down to Machine besting clone John at their card game and pays them no attention. Instead he picks his violin off the shelf and hunts around for something to clean the dust off of it with. Five more minutes pass and he decides that he better get used to the idea that perhaps John isn’t coming back. Maybe he’s finally seen some sense and decided to cut his losses.

With that thought, Sherlock’s chest tightens painfully as he raises the bow to the strings. The instrument screeches in pain, forcing his attention to tuning it. Playing the scales drowns everything else out for the moment.

 

***

John finds his forward motion pulled to a halt on the pavement outside Baker Street. The melancholy tune Sherlock is spinning with fingers and strings is like a punch to the gut. Surely, the genius didn’t think…?

“Oh God,” John mutters. He fiddles with his keys, shifting the grocery bags left and right in order to free up one hand and get to the door handle. He yanks it open and pounds up the steps in double-time. John pushes at the inside door with his hip and drops the bags gently to his feet so that he can turn and watch Sherlock. Time slows from a rolling boil to a simmer.

Gracefully, the tall man pivots on the balls of his feet, hips rolling to the understated beat of the music he’s teasing from the violin. John’s breath catches in his throat because in his heart of hearts, he’s missed _this_. As much as the whirlwind of everything that _is_ Sherlock Holmes grabs him by the hand and spins him in circles and even makes him forget which way is up and which way is down…as much as he _wants_ that part of Sherlock in his life, _this_ part is utterly remarkable: the way the master of the science of deduction can weave a complex jumble of notes into a coherent melody with such _feeling_ …this fills him up and threatens to drown him in its tenderness.

“Wow,” he lets slip when green eyes change from jade to emerald as Sherlock moves back and forth through the light from the windows into the shadows of the lounge.

Silently, John opens his arms wide. Sherlock deftly takes the violin from beneath his chin then gently rests it and the bow on the sofa before closing the circle. He rests his nose against the side of John’s neck, trying hard to get all of himself as close to all of John as possible. John is no fool, he doesn't need Sherlock to let him in on his thoughts this time. He lets Sherlock hide from his own source of insecurity.

John holds him, lets him be himself there in his old dressing gown, bare feet and sleep-mussed hair. Sherlock breathes in John and at some point they move a little so that their mouths can touch with the hardness of black velvet.


	13. P. II: Loneliest Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I did a thing.

**Within and Without, Part II**

 

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare…”  
― [F. Scott Fitzgerald](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3190.F_Scott_Fitzgerald), [_The Great Gatsby_](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/245494)

* * *

The weeks pass by with a whirling, graceful speed. Most mornings John and Sherlock wake in a tangle of limbs, the heat from their bodies suffusing through whichever bed clothes manage to survive the night before. They bicker like an old married couple, make love like newlyweds, and even solve a crime here and there in between. Once in a while one or the other of them either cooks or brings home takeaway. Mostly, their entwined lives have picked up from where they left off the day Sherlock dived from the top of Bart’s hospital but things are richer: a love requited is two hearts fulfilled.

Soon, the temperature outside begins to dip to the cooler end of the thermometer. As the days become shorter, Sherlock’s restless energy from being cooped up too long during a ‘dry spell’ forces John to suffer equally. Nothing holds the detective’s attention for long, including sex or hiding a single cigarette somewhere in the flat for His Brilliance to discover in a fit of need.

A pattern soon emerges: John takes to walking again, sometimes for two or three miles before heading home. By the time he returns, Sherlock has gotten up off the sofa (or out of the bed) and accomplished some menial domestic task: folding and putting away the laundry that’s been clean for a week, washing up and organizing his chemistry equipment, or even baking a chocolate cake. Even though they work together like a well-oiled machine, there are still some razor-sharp edges between them that need smoothed out. Sherlock takes time to work in the mind palace daily, though his long, withdrawn hours are getting farther and farther in between. John has never questioned Sherlock’s need for this time, and he does not question it now.

The feeling of the two of them being able to accomplish anything they set their respective energies to doing begins to expand and fills in the tiny cracks that still remain between them, building them up stronger and more resilient than either of them ever were before.

***

One mild but frosty evening very near the end of November, John is out to the pub with Lestrade and some of the others from the Met. While there, he runs into Mike Stamford who is with a bachelor party. Somehow, the two groups merge and the carrying on gets carried away. Before John knows it, he’s played several dart games, drank several more pints and has to apologize to a particularly buxom waitress when he accidentally dumps a pint down the front of her pristine blouse because he's laughing so hard at some stupid joke he can't get hold of the slippery glass properly.

She smiles graciously then firmly pushes his hands away when he does his best to mop up the mess in his inebriated state. The thought the he may have been staring at her chest never enters his mind until he enters the flat in the tiny hours of the morning. It doesn’t mean anything to him whatsoever, he is only slightly surprised to discover when thinking over the evening.

The great detective is nowhere to be seen and John fervently hopes he’s asleep so that he can sleep a bit of tonight’s bender off before explaining why he wasn’t home hours ago. Except for his long walks, this is the first time since the two of them fell into the decision to become a romantic couple that John has gone anywhere without Sherlock by his side. The reverse is also true: Sherlock has barely left the flat in months, seemingly almost reluctant to do so, especially after the fiasco with [the press conference](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957557) that was held to announce his reappearance into the realm of the living. John’s memory serves him very well and a bright picture of the tumult they had to escape that day is enough…they had been followed off and on for weeks, mostly at a distance, though some of the journalists that Sherlock calls ‘vultures’ under his breath to John would often get right in their faces. Even with Mycroft stepping in, they still hounded them, making it almost impossible for Sherlock to work crime scenes, pushing him harder and harder until his normally short fuse gave way one day and he stormed out of the abandoned warehouse with his hands in the air, too angry at the invasion into the Work to even hurl insults at anyone.

Naturally, this cooled their ardor a little but not for long, because as soon as they discovered that being overly gooey and lovey-dovey with one another was boring, the journalists began to go after fresher prey. Tonight, however, John missed the one standing in the shadows outside the pub. The one with the 300 mm lens and no scruples to speak of.

***

John climbs out of bed slowly the next morning, a marching band playing at their loudest between his temples, his mouth an arid plain stuffed with wool. He frowns when he notices that Sherlock’s side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, but since this is not an altogether unusual occurrence, he isn’t too worried. He stands in the shower and lets the warm water beat on his shoulders then soaps up and rinses off. By the time he’s slipped into a pair of cotton trousers and an old T-shirt, the thumping in his head is down to a dull roar and switching on the kettle isn’t so much a slow death by headache but a kinder, gentler drumbeat.

John makes two cups, having noted the detective’s presence in the sitting room when he came out of the shower.

“Tea, Sherlock,” John says, just like any other morning.

“You were late last night,” comes a growly baritone from the other room.

“I was,” John admits, “Stamford was there with a bunch of guys—some bachelor party for one of them—and it all sort of became one big party.” He sips at his tea, thankful for its warmth.

“Ah,” Sherlock intones, his voice closer now. John feels the heat from his body when he stops behind John’s chair. John waits for Sherlock to lean down and kiss the top of his head or wrap his arms around John’s shoulders the way that he has grown accustomed to.

The detective does neither of those things, instead reaches over John’s shoulder and drops a newspaper in the middle of the table. A large photograph of a dopey-smiling John with both hands stretched out towards a waitress is directly beneath the headline,

**_Genius Boffin Finally Not Enough for Three-Continents Watson?_ **

John sucks in a breath and swallows. “Sherlock, this is not what it looks like.”

“Tell me John that this doesn’t look like you with two hands full of breasts?” Sherlock demands as he spins on his heel and out of the kitchen. John makes a grab for his arm then receives the coldest stare from the detective he’s ever had—Sherlock’s green eyes are glassy, the rims red and there are high spots of color on his face. John only wants to reassure him, make him understand that nothing was happening…but Sherlock refuses to listen. He shoves John away, not hard enough to hurt, but enough so that he lets go Sherlock’s arm.

The door slams and long bare feet slap against the steps. John hangs his head and sighs, wondering how he is going to fix this. He doesn't need to hear the outside door to know Sherlock has fled the building. Nausea builds up in his guts, and it is only partially due to the remainder of last night's alcohol burning off; there's a new fear building there. As the power of it threatens to overtake him, he realizes that it is slowing him down. 

***

There in the middle of the pavement between the curb and the building, Sherlock forgets his corporeal self for a few moments. The rooms and corridors in the mind palace are dark. Only the smallest blue flame from a single lamp in the area designated to John can be seen. Doctor/Warrior John sits at the foot of the bed, his legs dangling, toes peeking out from the hem of his white robes and barely touching the floor. This John is looking up at Sherlock with his usual fond, amazed expression but there's something darker in his eyes.

There’s a shimmer in the air beside Sherlock and he turns his head to see a woman, a strange woman, not The Woman,glide into the room and towards John. John smiles at her and winks then opens his arms. While she moves closer to him, John smirks at Sherlock and Sherlock falls to his knees. The pain is real, so very, very real.

He can feel the skin begin to bruise underneath the worn material of his pajamas. It is always hard to be between the two worlds—the real one and the virtual one of the mind palace—but the pain in both places is bewildering and locks him in between them, threatening to pull him apart at the seams.

Around him the mind palace begins to bubble and steam like a reel of old 8mm film dunked into a vat of acid. The room spins and tilts and Sherlock cries out as John Watson, the man he has loved since he first set eyes on him in the lab, begins to laugh in between French kissing the waitress from the pub. It is the last thing Sherlock experiences before the cessation of sight, hearing…everything comes to a complete halt. Sherlock tries in vain to make some sense before the heavy doors on the mind palace slam shut with an eerie finality.

***

On the pavement outside the flat, John grabs at the waistband of his trousers, fingers searching for his gun and coming up empty. John stares helplessly at where Sherlock’s limp body rests in the arms of a large man wearing a black mask over his head. The man's brown eyes gleam wickedly through the slits as he hoists the unconscious man over his shoulder and turns towards the nondescript van that pulls up alongside him. When he shoves Sherlock into the back of it, he throws something in John’s direction.

The morning light glances off the silver implement as it bounces on the pavement with a _ping_ to land at John’s feet. John stares down at the empty hypodermic needle with mounting horror.

 


	14. P. II: Lead On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Happy Birthday, Benedict* (Why haven't we made it an International Holiday yet?)

"Lead on!" said Scrooge. "Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know."  -Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

* * *

 

 

John wakes up for the second time that day, screaming and throwing punches at invisible foes. It is so strange to feel yourself returning to consciousness without realizing you not to begin with. There’s a strong arm around his waist holding him still in a vise-like grip. Even in his disoriented state, he can tell he’s being propped up by a solid body. His mind is muddled until he spots the needle in the hand of a police officer; she is placing it into a brown envelope for processing.

Suddenly, everything is entirely _too_ clear.

“Sherlock,” John calls weakly, detesting even the sound of his own voice that echoes hollowly back to him through time.

“John, can you hear me?” D.I. Lestrade speaks softly from behind him.

That throws him off a bit, but he turns to see the inspector holding him up. There’s a paramedic there, too, wiping an antiseptic cloth over a scratch on his chin. John shakes his head and she backs away. Greg lets go but doesn’t move, obviously still lending his support, which John appreciates, but he really needs to get to Sherlock _right now_.

After the stupid row, if something’s happened to him _now_ —how can he ever forgive himself?

John tries to move but he’s dizzy again and ends up on the pavement on his behind with his head in his hands, Greg watching him carefully.

“John?” he tries again.

“I’m here Greg, I’m here, but I don’t want to be. I can’t lose him…again…I can’t.” A lump the size of a boulder is stuck in his throat. It is getting hard to breathe and everything is gray around the edges.

“I understand, we are doing all we can. Mycroft’s cameras caught up with the car a few minutes ago and he alerted me to…well, to you and here I am.”

“Why aren’t you out looking, too?” John raises his head. He can see Greg wince and step backwards, both of them reminded forcefully of another time in a similar situation. It has all happened so fast.

“It’s Mycroft’s case now,” Greg states, flatly, brown eyes flashing.

“Oh,” is all John can think of to say. “That bad?”

“I’m not a liberty to discuss it, apparently.” Greg drops gracefully to the pavement beside him, patting his pockets. He finds a decrepit pack of cigarettes that has certainly seen better days and offers it to John. John declines by holding up his hand then takes the lighter from the DI and lights his for him. Greg takes a deep drag and closes his eyes.

“Any idea on time?” John hates himself for asking because it sounds so much like the pleading he’s heard victims do, time and time again. How can Greg be so calm? He’s Sherlock’s friend, too…why can’t he see how important this is?

Greg shakes his head, takes another drag, pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and coughs. “Now I remember why I quit this.” He plops it back between his teeth, however, and leans back on one hand. With the other one he pulls the stick out of his mouth and exhales, his lips forming a perfect smoke ring.

John watches, slightly hypnotized and thinks about how there’s something eerily deja-vu’ish about those smoke rings*. Something otherworldly but strangely grounding.

Greg sighs, takes one last drag and stubs the cigarette out on the cement between them. “Vile habit,” he mutters.

John thinks he sounds an awful lot like a Holmes.

“I have nothing to tell you, John, though God knows I wish I did. Sounds like we are both out of the loop on this one, at least until Mycroft’s dogs get the scent of their quarry—which really, they are half way there last I heard.” Greg stares out at the busy streets around them.

***

Water is dripping agonizingly slowly somewhere; it brings Sherlock almost fully around. The sound of his pulse is loud in his ears and he hesitates to open his eyes.

Inside the mind palace, however, he can see clearly that Doctor/Warrior John and Machine are keeping a close eye on him, or rather on his own alter that is stretched out on the luxurious bed in John’s room. Nothing there has changed from his last visit, except that the light is dimmed.

John is leaning over his bare chest, slowly sliding his palm down Sherlock’s abdomen, causing the muscles to jump under the caress. Sherlock moans pitifully.

“I know, love, it’s going to hurt for a while yet,” John croons gently.

“What did they give you?” Machine asks in a gruff, raspy voice.

Sherlock doesn’t remember giving him the power to speak but right now he’s not going to argue the point. A list of a thousand different drugs—all illicit, all easy to get if your connections are good—runs down the now solid white wall behind Machine. The cyborg lifts his eye patch and studies them carefully. The weirdness of reading with a precious stone in an empty eye socket is not lost on Sherlock; at the moment he simply doesn’t care.

“Ah,” Machine intones, “it appears to possibly be _these_.” He raises his hand and swipes at the list just the way Sherlock does out in the real world. Machine’s hand goes all the way across the list, while real world Sherlock’s hand is hindered by the handcuffs someone has put on him.

In the mind palace, though, none of them pay any attention to his physical form. Not yet. Sherlock’s eyes rove the list and he snaps his fingers. Some of the names of the drugs turn red while the others vanish. Beside the ones that remain, a virtual drop-down menu of chemical reactions, metabolic rates and possible side effects appears. Sherlock sits up and forward so that he may study it quietly for a few moments, then leans back down, intending to lie back; instead, he’s caught by John’s arms and the sensation is so real that he can feel the coolness of the chain mail beneath John’s robes against his cheek.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs en bakey!” A cold slap of what must be water yanks Sherlock into the present where he finds himself handcuffed to a cold metal bar; the same cold metal bar he’d just been leaning his face against. He doesn’t spit or splutter, merely sizes up the bald, podgy man who threw, yes, a bucket of water on him as it streams down his face.

“There ‘ee is, dee-tech-tiff.” The man smiles and Sherlock is not amused to see a mouthful of nasty teeth, minus one in the bottom row.

“You’ve got a bit of green stuff there,” Sherlock retorts, tilting his head and swiping at his own incisor with his tongue.

Instead of hitting him, though, the man answers the snappy comeback by emptying the rest of the water onto Sherlock’s head. He cackles bravely, but Sherlock notices he stays out of what would be Sherlock’s reach if he weren’t wearing the handcuffs. He shivers a little, but whether it is from anger, humiliation or actual cold at the moment he isn’t in any mood to decide.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the man, and he can clearly see this one is just a patsy—the one left to keep an eye on him for whomever set up this whole scheme in the first place. Well, if he can’t get loose at least he can maybe _not be bored_ while he waits for the cavalry.

***

“Greg, I can’t stand this.”

“John, won’t you sit down and have a nice cup of tea?” Mrs. Hudson has suddenly appeared like a food-bearing angel from the ether with a fully-loaded tea tray.

Outside the window at his back, a cold sunset is giving way to a colder night.

Greg, sitting on the sofa, uncrosses his leg and gets down to business, tucking in as if he hasn’t eaten in days.

John wants to rail, he wants to scream and break things, he certainly wants to shoot someone…but none of that would help. They’ve been receiving regular reports on the hour from Mycroft’s team but for John it will never be enough. Being cooped up in their flat, besieged at is it with…everything…that is so _Sherlock_ is enough to drive a sane man nuts and a half-crazy one…well, maybe he needs to stop that train of thought, too, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to go get that bottle of whiskey from the top cupboard and maybe drown in it for a day or three.

He crosses the room to get away from the window where his detective stands and sways so sweetly when he coaxes such serene melodies from his violin; he can’t sit on the couch next to Greg, so he drops into Sherlock’s chair so hard it shakes beneath him. The hot cup of tea is just another strong reminder of a useless argument brought on because John thought he could finally stop canvassing the area for the newspaper vultures when he went out—he was wrong, once again.

He sips his tea, knows he’s being terrible company, but hell, haven’t they all been here before? Mrs. Hudson has taken the seat beside the DI and they are conversing in low tones. John knows better than to ask to be alone, so he doesn’t even try. There’s too much history here, but in a way even the bad kind is comforting.

In his heart, he knows he’s just got to keep believing.

At the top of the hour, both his and Greg’s mobiles chime with an update. They read their message, lock eyes over the coffee table and get to their feet at once. A quick word of thanks to Mrs. Hudson and John is following the silver-haired detective down the steps and they are hastening out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Please tell me you get this.


	15. P. II: Smoking Gun

**Chapter 15: Smoking Gun**

All I kept thinking about, over and over, was 'You can't live forever; you can't live forever.”   
― [F. Scott Fitzgerald](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3190.F_Scott_Fitzgerald), _[The Great Gatsby](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/245494)_

***

Being kidnapped and handcuffed to a metal bar is _dull_. Being in a fetid basement is even more _dull_. So very, very dull. It’s not even _original_. Sherlock’s arms are beginning to cramp and he’s pretty sure that his butt is numb from resting it against the hard floor.

Actually, on second thought, this whole thing is not just dull but _boring_ as well. He shifts, trying to change the distribution of his weight and bends his knees up, resting his feet flat against the cement.

It is so boring being here that even the mind palace is as gloomy and silent as any abandoned house ever could be. Sherlock finds that he misses the supporting presence of his alters and Doctor/Warrior John. For a little while, he drops his head to his knees and lets his mind wander freely along the darkened corridors.

Sherlock moves slowly, taking in the sensation of plush carpet against his bare feet. The mind palace is so solid this time that in the real world, slumped against the wall, Sherlock’s toes curl, trying to make contact. His eyes move rapidly beneath closed lids. He looks, for all the world, like he is soundly dreaming. 

Today, the floors of the mind palace are covered in thick, royal purple wall-to-wall carpeting that stands out in clear contrast to the grayness of the place; no cold tile or smooth wood, just soft, deep pile. With each gliding step, a brass sconce bursts into life but with each pair that he passes, they go out again. It is a strange kind of dance—step, step, light; step, step light…as he walks, he picks rooms seemingly at random, sticking his head in and looking them over. Sherlock grasps the dog tags hanging on his neck in one hand and uses the other hand to open doors. There has really been no time to catalog the subtle changes that have occurred throughout the virtual structure since he came home so he decides that since he isn't going anywhere anytime soon, now would be a good time to do just that.

In the room with the white walls, white carpeting, and white arched ceiling a small trinket hangs on a thin gold chain from the arm of an almost blinding white chaise lounge. On closer inspection it turns out to be the remnants of bullet shot from a Browning…a particular bullet put into the shoulder of a particular murderous cabbie. Sherlock backs out of the room, closes the door gently and moves off down the corridor.

The next room is as comfortable as any gentleman’s study. There’s a heavy mahogany desk front and center, beside it stands an empty umbrella holder. Hunter green, mauve and navy blue dominate the space. This room is constantly updated: a sleek, modern PC rests on the desk in almost the same place a typewriter and then a word processor used to sit. Behind the desk is a similar leather upholstered chair and an enormous cork board. Right now the board is empty, save for a single photograph in the middle of it.

In the photo, John beams out at him, not smiling for the journalist taking the snap, but for Sherlock alone. Sherlock turns away, but not before his mind drapes one of John’s jumpers over the back of the chair.

Other rooms present themselves for inspection, one holding a display case of John’s medals—the ones he doesn’t like to talk about—but one day will look splendid on his broad chest if Sherlock can ever get him to wear his dress uniform. He does have a certain occasion in mind for that to happen, but they aren’t quite there yet.

Sherlock finally reaches the room that he visits the least, and only in times when he needs to feel especially warm: the Roman bath. As soon as he steps over the threshold, his clothing vanishes. Naked now save for John’s dog tags, he wades into the long, rectangular pool of clear blue water. A light fog of steam hovers over it. He sinks down onto one of the stone seats that run along the side, for once allowing himself the comfort of the heat. He is not alone here, not at all. Cruel and Guilty have reappeared in the long mirrors that line the sides of the room, silently regarding him with twin expressions of disappointment.

Machine sits at a table on a wide veranda that seems out of place, though the table is crafted of the same stone as the bench Sherlock rests on. The cyborg alter is almost blocked from Sherlock’s line of sight by three tall columns that run down the center of the pool. Opposite the veranda is a roughhewn rock waterfall, the water majestically cascading in the colors of the rainbow seen when a prism bends white light. Steam rises from the flow and it is both ethereal and as earthy as any part of the mind palace can be. The rocks are worn smooth from the water; a strange bright red moss can be seen growing beneath the fall. 

Doctor/Warrior John is not here, yet he has been recently because his shield leans against the side of the pool nearest Sherlock. If he wanted, he could grab the shield, bring it into the water with him, and perhaps use it as a dipper to pour water over his head — perform some sort of ablution that could free him from the physical pain of hurting John yet again. He ads that thought to another note to hang in the Ask room. 

***

John is experiencing another strong sensation of déjà vu.

He and Greg stand opposite the back door of an empty, dilapidated house that Mycroft's intel alleges has a staircase behind it that will lead them down into the basement. They are in the dank underbelly of the city, in an area so old that parts of the cobblestone road can still be seen where rock is breaking through the asphalt.

It is a moonless night; both men share the weight of it between them. Through the headsets he forced on them, Mycroft barks orders to his team plus two. Lestrade has no opinion on the headsets, though he’s not thrilled to be second-in-command to the team leader, because this is another job to him. Not exactly by-the-book, but close enough that there’s still a bit of a thrill to be on the case.

He’s lucky Mycroft trusts them as much as he trusts his own team or neither of them would even be here.

John hates the headset, detests checking in every few minutes, abhors being pinned down so close but so far away from the person he’s trying to save. He is too much a professional, however, to turn down help so freely given if it will get him back to Sherlock that much faster and the job that much cleaner.

On John’s side of the house there’s movement, but in the heavy shroud of darkness he almost doesn’t see it. A small figure has pushed open a window and leaps deftly from the ground to the sill then slips into the house.

“Top Dog, we’re a plus one. I repeat, plus one, through the big window on the south side.” John breathes into his microphone. He can feel Lestrade pulling his sidearm from beneath his jacket and copies the motion.

“Roger that, Smoking Gun.” Mycroft’s team leader, a man whose name John still doesn’t know, calmly intones.

“Can we have a count?” Lestrade asks.

“Silver Fox wants a count, Top Dog.” The team leader announces to the rest of the team.

John turns to Lestrade and catches him smiling, his eyes and teeth shiny as John’s eyes adjust to the night. John shakes his head.

“Silver Fox, you have a count of thirty to get to the Black Cat. Do you copy, Smoky?”

“I copy, Top Dog.” John answers. Lestrade does the same.

Somehow their eyes meet and both men tick away the thirty seconds. John kicks the door in and Lestrade covers him. They enter a tiny mud room and are immediately facing another door. Lestrade does the honors this time with John pointing his gun in the direction that just entered through.

The decrepit wooden door gives way with a groan and then thuds down the steps.

“Sounds like we have a staircase to heaven, folks.” Lestrade quips in order to let the rest of the team know they should go silent. He takes a mag lite from the back pocket of his black jeans then flicks it on and shoves into his hand beside his gun then grins at John like a lunatic.

John nods, trying not to smile and follows Greg down the steps, the way made a little easier by the torch. The timeworn stairs creak beneath their feet as they wind their way deeper into the belly of the old house. They can make out voices up ahead. John freezes on the last step, instantly recognizing Sherlock. Lestrade switches the torch back off and passes it to John, gesturing for him to take point. John’s heart is pounding, but it is not fear now, rather it is the instinct to take out whomever thought they could take away what rightfully belongs to him.

There’s an instant, however, when they round the corner of the squalid basement when everything in the world comes to a screeching halt. Someone has lit a large round candle and placed in on top of a broken-down washing machine. In the dancing light of the flames, John takes in three items simultaneously.

Item One: Sherlock Holmes is on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. His head is bowed and he is handcuffed to a shiny metal bar that has recently been added to the wall. It is the cleanest thing down here. The detective appears to be unconscious or possibly deep in the mind palace: he is breathing but seems unaware of what is happening around him. John can see where Sherlock’s hair is damp and he instinctively checks the ceiling for leaks.

Item Two: A dirty, wretched little man is pointing a rather too large weapon for the circumstances at the only other person in the basement that is not John, Sherlock or Greg. If a bullet of that caliber goes off down here and misses its intended target, it's going to punch a serious hole in the crumbling wall. 

Item Three: The wretched little man is holding Irene Adler at gunpoint.


	16. P.II: Look At Us Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...well, I am. Look at us both." -Irene Adler

**Chapter 16: Look at Us Both  
**

John’s first instinct is to blow the pudgy man to smithereens except that is directly at war with his _need_ to get to Sherlock.

Since the man is really ignoring John, he makes a command decision and takes five steps to the detective, knowing he’s crossing a huge mental divide in allowing Lestrade to cover them in a time like this. Right now, Sherlock is the most important thing in this room and if John has to take a bullet in the back to get to him, so be it. It’s not like he hasn’t been shot before.

Before he can think any further about how wide open they are like this, John is on his knees, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and searching for a way to get him unbound. John leans against the slack body, pulling upward in order to remove some of the strain from Sherlock’s arms. The detective groans and tries to thrash against him; in response, John starts talking, making a valiant effort to ignore what is going on behind him.

***

Sherlock opens his eyes, peers through the fog made by the steam. It hangs just below the vaulted ceiling; a perfect balance between moisture and air. The stone beneath him is inexplicably cool to the touch. He slides down so that the water covers the top of his head and takes in the feeling of complete sensory deprivation. When he breaks the surface again, he notices right off that John’s shield is gone.

Sherlock grasps the dog tags around his neck and steps up and out of the enormous pool, the rock worn smooth with use. Two of his alters stand at attention in the mirrored wall he now faces, their expressions serious; Machine walks up behind him, draping his shoulders with a large towel. There’s a pair of large hands resting on his shoulders now and a deep, slightly mechanical voice informing him, “You have to fight, Sherlock.”

The detective knows that doesn’t mean an actual physical altercation—no, it means that he needs to fight the way his transport is trying hard to surrender and allow him to simply remain in the mind palace.

In this moment, there’s no real pain here, only the soft creature comforts of hot water and a soft towel. Machine’s hands, however, are strong and Sherlock can hear the creak of the cyborg’s gloves as he tightens his fingers. Pain begins to radiate slowly from the points of contact down his arms until his fingers feel like he has somehow managed to grab a fistful of stinging bees.

In the real world, in a stinking basement now made even more dangerous for the warm presence pushing against him, Sherlock cries out and sweeps the cobwebs from his mind. In the mind palace, the bath house rolls back into its niche until it’s needed again, moving away from him the way set pieces are pulled on and off stage. Darkness descends on everything until there is nothing left but the steady pulse of pain. Without a doubt, he’s felt worse but this time it is more acute because he deserves it somehow, a fitting punishment for accusing the one person in his life besides his brother who has stood by him through _everything_ of disloyalty.

The sweet melody of a voice rough with emotion in his ear now, a familiar and treasured voice. Tendrils of golden light begin to steal over him. John. Speaking softly, telling him he’s going to be okay, that they will get through this and he is going to take care of Sherlock. Another groan is torn from him as John shifts, but some of the pain begins to dissipate as his body weight is shifted off his cuffed hands. Tiny pinpricks of sensation returns, and Sherlock becomes aware of the echo of other voices around them.

***

“Who are you?” Irene’s voice carries to Sherlock from where John is supporting him. He raises his head enough to see where a hidden door is opening and someone is stepping through, though Irene is talking to the short man with the gun. As his vision begins to clear, he can make out a dark-haired, middle-aged woman of average height dressed in a white lab coat and pale green scrubs. Her shoes are covered with plastic and she’s wearing tan leather driving gloves.

Opposite Sherlock and John, Greg steps back into the shadows, keeping the stranger in his sights but also speaking lowly into the headset he’s wearing. John has already pulled his off and dropped it to the floor beside them. Ah. Mycroft, then. Since there’s plenty of firepower in the room, he stays mum and concentrates on leaning against John. The blood flow to his hands is improving, but it hurts like hell. Each finger throbs in protest. He carefully rubs his cheek against John’s face. John nods into his shoulder almost imperceptibly, still murmuring a litany of soothing words. Sherlock’s attention shifts subtly, still hearing John but not quite making out individual words in order to focus on the stranger.

“You’ve done an excellent job, Embry,” the woman says with a slight smile and a wicked gleam in her eyes, nodding toward the man with the gun. He drops it to his side and smiles. “Now I’ve got your reward for you.” Her accent is soft, clipped and distinctly Boston.

“Aww, Miranda, thanks so much, I been tryin’ so hard and I gots to tell ‘ya, he’s really been a good boy…”

_Blam!_

Embry hits the floor like a sack of rotten tomatoes, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. His weapon smacks the cement and skitters towards where the hidden door remains ajar.

“Fucking idiot.” Miranda announces to the room at large, pulling her gun back towards her face to blow on the muzzle. She takes a wide stance, rolls her shoulders and turns the gun to Irene, holding it only in her right hand. “I got your loverboy, Irene, something you never even managed to do.”

Irene? What is she doing here? Again? Sherlock moves too fast and his shoulders seize. He grits his teeth as John tightens his hold. Sherlock tilts his head and stares in The Woman’s direction through one eye.

Irene smirks and levels her own weapon directly at Miranda. “He’s a dish, babe, but not really one I want to sample.” A little bark of laughter. “Well, not anymore.” She jauntily cocks her hip. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, Irene,” Miranda sighs and tosses her shoulder-length hair dramatically, “why have you always got to be such a bitch?” The gun in her hand doesn’t waver.

“Hmmm….no reason to use such foul language in the company of these fine gentleman.” Irene coos, keeping all of the other woman’s attention directly on her.

Miranda scowls and turns her head just enough to take in Sherlock and John. She snorts. “My ass, Irene.”

Miranda’s brown eyes harden when she spies Greg in the corner when he steps a little closer to them. “Look, give me what you owe me and I’ll go. I was going to take my turn with loverboy down there,” she shakes the gun towards Sherlock and uses her other hand to open her lab coat. She’s got a wide variety of wicked knives strapped to the inside of the white material. “See?” she smiles broadly.

“Of course, Miranda, why do you think I’ve had my eye on you?” Irene snarks.

“Just one little cut, love? But then, you always gave little Katie more attention than you did me.” Miranda pouts.

“You were a client. Just business, nothing personal.” Irene takes a step forward and closes one eye.

“Client!” Miranda shouts and this time the gun in her hand begins to shake. She drops the sides of her lab coat and clutches at the handle with trembling fingers. “That’s not what you told me.”

“Miranda, really? How could you…”

“Ever since you started working for fucking Mycroft, you’ve been no fun at all, Irene. None at all.”

Miranda pulls the trigger. Irene drops to her knees. Miranda’s bullet smacks into the wall three inches from Greg’s shoulder. Now he and Irene are both moving towards Miranda, Greg grabbing at her gun hand and Irene taking her down at the knees. When she finally falls to the floor, there’s a scuffle that ends with Greg holding Miranda with her arms pulled behind her back.

Irene reaches into Miranda’s coat and slides out one of the very long, very nasty blades. Ever the showgirl, she places the blade beneath Miranda’s chin and slowly draws it down the front of the coat.

“Get it off her.” Irene orders.

Greg nods, redrawing his weapon and holding it against Miranda’s forehead. “Don’t move,” he tells her, his gruff voice thick with venom while Irene efficiently strips her of the coat.

“Well. That went lots better the last time you did it,” Miranda says then frowns. “All this time, and you won’t even thank me?”

Irene steps away and searches the pockets of the coat for the keys. A tiny jingle sounds as they hit the dirty floor. Irene leans down to get them.

“John,” she calls softly, but in the tense silence of the small musty basement, the sound is as loud as canon fire*. John turns to look at her and she dangles the little silver fob. He holds his hand out and she tosses them to him. Miranda watches the keys but Greg keeps his attention on her.

“I need those cuffs, John, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, Greg, just a second.” John is doing his best to unlock the handcuffs and hold Sherlock up at the same time.

“Just let me go, it will only be for a minute,” Sherlock rumbles, finally back to himself enough to speak.

John nods and lets him go. The cuffs come undone with a snick and Sherlock’s whole body drops forward then all hell breaks loose.

The basement is suddenly filled with the hollow echo of booted feet tromping down twin sets of wooden steps that creak and groan. Greg’s attention is diverted long enough for Miranda to knock his gun away from him. She lands a decent right hook across his face and he stumbles backward, shoving John down to his knees from where he’s trying to help Sherlock stand.

Irene tries to recover but by the time she’s got her gun in firing position again, Miranda has one of her knives in her hand and she’s advancing on Irene. With the sharp tip of the knife, she’s pushing Irene backward and against the mossy wall.

“Hold your fire!” A man’s voice calls out. Seven guns go click as safeties are thrown on and seven men and women dressed from head to toe in black stand down.

“God, Irene, you move and I’m going to go on ahead and cut ‘ya. I’ve…I’m done. I’m just so over it! You think you are so high and mighty, that you can just...just do what you please to whoever you please…”

“No, they usually _ask_ me,” Irene quips, cool as a cucumber despite the circumstances.

“Whomever,” Sherlock mumbles against the side of John’s neck at the same time Irene speaks, so that her voice covers his.

Miranda goes completely still, the only thing moving is her arm as she draws back the knife in order to stab into Irene’s abdomen.

“Now,” Mycroft says from the no-longer hidden doorway. He holds his head high, eyes narrowed, as impeccably dressed as always and somehow not looking as quite out of place as he probably should. 

Irene lets herself drop just as Miranda’s head whips back from the velocity of the round that hits her in the temple. She crashes forward to land against Irene who notices that as Miranda fell, the knife blade sliced across her forearm. Irene finds the capacity to grin like a loon at the wound.

Mycroft’s men are moving into the room now, splitting up between Sherlock’s side and Irene’s and as they are getting Miranda’s still form off Irene, she faints.

“John, I need you,” Mycroft says with only a hint of urgency.

John hands Sherlock off to Greg and steps up next to Mycroft who has lifted Irene off the cold cement. John grabs her bleeding arm and squeezes, doing his level best as Mycroft barks more orders into his headset, though the angry tone of his voice carries so well, he thinks that the headset is nothing but a formality at this point.

“Let’s get her up the stairs and outside,” John states firmly, accepting the strips of lab coat that one of the team members has torn for him. He tightens one above the gash on Irene’s arm as he speaks, easily slipping into doctor mode.

Mycroft doesn’t answer him, though, just turns towards the doorway and disappears upstairs. Greg and Sherlock follow him, John behind them, supporting Sherlock in case he stumbles.

An ambulance arrives just as they march out into a silvery-gray dawn. The doors are slammed shut and the vehicle is roaring away with its sirens blaring as Sherlock wraps himself around John. Everything around them becomes a blur as Mycroft’s team completes their duties. The next time he’s completely aware, he and Sherlock are in a cab headed back towards Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Author’s note: yep. Irene literally giving John the keys to unlock Sherlock from his bonds…ah, you all know I so love my intentional similes! I can’t even make it any clearer about my own thoughts on the Battersea meeting, now can I?


	17. P.II: Little Comforts

**Chapter 17**

Sherlock moans softly beneath John’s hands. John shifts his hips backward a little so that he rests his weight fully on Sherlock’s behind. The detective pushes upwards into John’s groin then lets out another long, rumbling groan. John’s hands tighten around Sherlock’s shoulders as he bends at the waist in order to stretch over the miles of lean, muscular, bare back in front of him.

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. “You have marvelous hands.”

John smirks and readjusts himself so that he’s pressing against those so very well crafted glutes. He squeezes his thighs first then his fingers.

“Ow!” Sherlock cries out. “That hurt.”

“Oh, you big baby,” John mutters but he loosens his hold a little. “Hold on, let me get some more l…”

“John if you move I swear I won’t go after you the next time you fall in the Thames,” Sherlock mock warns, trying to look intimidating over his shoulder and failing spectacularly.

“Get over it, you big git. If I don’t keep it all lubricated, it’s going to hurt worse tomorrow, so shut up and trust me.” John scoots forward, dragging himself over Sherlock’s arse and up his back until he’s got his knees almost in Sherlock’s armpits. He reaches over to the nightstand for the bottle of unscented massage oil then upends it and dribbles some on the base of Sherlock’s neck and over his shoulders. This time when he presses down a bit harder, twisting his wrist so that he is effectively digging his heel into the muscle, Sherlock lets out a moan of pleasure instead of whinging.

“See, what did I tell you?”

“Yrrr…..ight….” Sherlock mutters into the pillows.

“What was that?” John asks.

Sherlock turns his head to the side and clears his throat. “I said your assumption about giving a massage without the oil has proven to be a correct one.”

John shakes his head and rolls his eyes to the ceiling, “I’m taking that as gratitude and a compliment, and you’re welcome.”

Sherlock says nothing else for a few more minutes while John works the aching muscles. As he works, he scoots backwards again, using himself as a blanket and heating pad. It seems to be doing the trick, he thinks, because Sherlock’s eyes are drifting closed with glacial speed. The tense little lines across his forehead and around his mouth soften out, too.

“You _are_ going to be sore, Sherlock, even though it was only about twelve hours or so. Don’t rush it, okay? Here,” John says as he dismounts, rolling Sherlock over and receiving a grunt of irritation in response. “You look ridiculous when you try to give me the intense stare of death with your eyes closed, idiot.”

Sherlock cocks one eyebrow, still without opening his eyes.

“Fine then, you need the rest anyway. I’ll grab you some ibuprofen and you can drink it with a cup of tea…” John starts to stand up from where he’s perched on the edge of the bed until he is stopped by nimble fingers gripping the waistband of his soft cotton pajama bottoms.

“No,” Sherlock grumbles as he yanks John down on top of him. He pulls at him until John’s head is fit perfectly beneath Sherlock’s chin; Sherlock rubs it back and forth, his light stubble catching at the fine golden hairs there. Something in the room around them shifts and goes still, the way a fawn does in long grass when its mother walks away to graze.

“No,” he repeats.

The sound is so broken, so plaintive, that John can’t help but wrap his arms around Sherlock’s chest and hold him tightly—tighter than he has ever held on to anybody. John closes his eyes and allows himself to relax against the strong body beneath him.

***

Sherlock does not wander the mind palace as he sleeps; instead his rest is sound, his mind blank, his brain shut down for a little while. The smells of home—John—surround him as he wakes slowly, all his systems sluggishly beginning to boot up. He rolls his shoulders, thankful that some of the pain has subsided then stretches languidly, feeling the way his toes rub against the underside of the duvet. Sherlock scratches idly at his scalp and lets his arms fall out to his sides. Something is missing. What is it?

His eyes snap open when he realizes John’s side of the bed is empty.

***

“John?”

John hears the query just as he is clicking on the kettle to boil. He turns in order to face Sherlock, his curls disheveled, the light blue sheet from the bed draped around him like a toga. He is holding it up with both hands the way a lady holds up the long train of a wedding dress to avoid stepping on it. One pale, faintly freckled shoulder peeks out from the material. 

John makes a ‘come here’ gesture with his fingers and Sherlock steps into his space.He gently lays his palm against the nape of Sherlock’s neck, a silent request to ask him to bend down a little so that he can place a kiss on that lovely mouth as well as that fine shoulder.

Sherlock offers him a half-smile then drops into one of the chairs at the table. John grins back and leans against the bench, crossing his arms over his bare chest and for a moment they simply look at one another.

The kettle whistles and John busies himself making their tea. Sherlock accepts his with a soft “thanks” and a little grunt as the muscles in his arm contract.

“I imagine your arms are still sore.” John states blandly.

“Hmmm.” Sherlock answers, carefully blowing across the steaming cup. Silence lies between them for a few heartbeats until John has to ask the question that is threatening to burn his brain into cinders.

“Did you know about Mycroft’s case?”

Sherlock studies him intently for a few minutes, seeming to go out of the kitchen without actually moving. “No.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, John, I do not _kid_. I knew Irene had been working for him for a while—we ran into each other whilst I was…ah.” Sherlock trails off at John’s pinched expression. He thinks it odd how much his features can resemble the cyborg’s in this instant.

“Ran into each other?” John asks, his tone layered steel.

“Not like that John. I’m going to say this once and for all: I have no sexual interest in Irene Adler. Her mind is another story altogether. Am I clear?”

John relaxes his fingers that are so tight on his mug that he seems able to crush the ceramic without a second thought. “Oh,” he says in a small voice.

“Yes, Oh. How many times did I ignore her invitations to _dinner_ , John?” Sherlock narrows his eyes, some of the sleepy glow about him fading fast. He’s got his own hand clutched around his tea.

“Guess it’s my turn to apologize, then,” John admits, studying the brew in his cup.

Sherlock merely waves a hand through the air between them the way he blows away cigarette smoke. “It’s fine.”

The detective gets up then, heading towards his bedroom and royally trailing the sheet behind him. John shakes his head to himself and quietly finishes his tea, contemplating that there are still things unsaid between them that needed to be discussed. He thinks about his own quick acceptance of Sherlock coming home and how fast they fell right back into step with one another. Granted, the intimacy is phenomenal. Little things, like Irene, are going to keep cropping up now and again. In his heart, he wants to clear the air all in one fell swoop so that they start off with cleans slates—but in his mind, he knows that in reality, the opposite may be true. They are, after all, men and British to boot. He sighs as he sits his empty cup on the table.

Quietly, Sherlock has re-entered the kitchen, and instead of being dressed for the day he’s as naked as the day he was born.

“John, I think it is better to deal with things as they happen. Why should I make you miserable dredging up stuff that may not actually bother you?”

John shrugs, letting his eyes roam Sherlock’s body, then snapping them up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “I don’t want to let some things simmer so long they boil over.”

“Did the issue with Irene boil over or did we discuss it?”

John thinks that was less of a discussion and more of Sherlock flat-out showing his cards. “Now that I think about it, you’re probably right.”

“I’m always right?” Sherlock plants his hands on his hips. It's an odd question, without a doubt.

John licks his lips; there’s just one more thing he wants to say. “Sherlock,” Sherlock’s gaze grows even more intense. He doesn’t answer, but his expression lets John know that he is listening.

“I don’t want anything in our way.”

“There is nothing in our way, John, not now. We have always been able to work things out between us, have we not?” Sherlock stalks forward as he speaks.

“Yes.”

Sherlock rests his hands on John’s shoulders, caressing him until his long fingers stop to rest lightly against the back of his neck. He dips his head until his lips are touching John’s ear.

“We are stronger now than we have ever been, now kiss me.” Sherlock growls.

John obliges.


End file.
